Menken, Adah Isaacs
|HEMLOCK IN THE FURROWS.|
To-night, O Soul! Shut off thy little rimmings of Hope,
and let us go back to our hemlock that sprang up in the
Let us go back with bleeding feet and try to break up
the harvestless ridges where we starved.
Let us go down to the black sunset whose wings of fire
burnt out thy flowery thickets of Day, and left a Night to
swoop down the lonesome clouds to thee.
Go back to the desolate time when the dim stars looked
out from Heaven, firmly and blank, like eyes in the wide
front of some dead beast.
Go, press thy nakedness to the burnt, bare rocks, under
whose hot, bloodless ribs the River of Death runs black
with human sorrow.
To-night, O soul! Fly back through all the grave-yards
of thy Past.
Fly back to them this night with thy fretful wings, even
though their bloody breadth must wrestle long against
Hell's hollow bosom!