My great South-woman, soon to rise And tiptoe up and loose her hair; Tiptoe, and take from all the skies God's stars and glorious moon to wear! I. The poet shall create or kill, Bid heroes live, bid braggarts die. I look against a lurid sky,-- My silent South lies proudly still. The lurid light of burning lands Still climbs to God's house overhead; Mute women wring white withered hands; Their eyes are red, their skies are red. Poor man! still boast your bitter wars! Still burn and burn, and burning die. But God's white finger spins the stars In calm dominion of the sky. And not one ray of light the less Comes down to bid the grasses spring; No drop of dew nor anything Shall fail for all your bitterness. The land that nursed a nation's youth, Ye burned it, sacked it, sapped it dry. Ye gave it falsehoods for its truth, And fame was fashioned from a lie. If man grows large, is God the less? The moon shall rise and set the same, The great sun spill his splendid flame And clothe the world in queenliness. And from that very soil ye trod Some large-souled seeing youth shall come Some day, and he shall not be dumb Before the awful court of God. II. The weary moon had turned away, The far North-Star was turning pale To hear the stranger's boastful tale Of blood and flame that battle day. And yet again the two men glared, Close face to face above that tomb; Each seemed as jealous of the room The other eager waiting shared. Again the man began to say,-- As taking up some broken thread, As talking to the patient dead,-- The Creole was as still as they: "That night we burned yon grass-grown town,-- The grasses, vines are reaching up; The ruins they are reaching down, As sun-browned soldiers when they sup. "I knew her,--knew her constancy. She said, this night of every year She here would come, and kneeling here, Would pray the live-long night for me. "This praying seems a splendid thing! It drives old Time the other way; It makes him lose all reckoning Of years that pagans have to pay. "This praying seems a splendid thing! It makes me stronger as she prays-- But oh the bitter, bitter days When I became a banished thing! "I fled, took ship,--I fled as far As far ships drive tow'rd the North-Star; For I did hate the South, the sun That made me think what I had done. "I could not see a fair palm-tree In foreign land, in pleasant place, But it would whisper of her face And shake its keen sharp blades at me. "Each black-eyed woman would recall A lone church-door, a face, a name, A coward's flight, a soldier's shame: I fled from woman's face, from all. "I hugged my gold, my precious gold, Within my strong, stout, buckskin vest. I wore my bags against my breast So close I felt my heart grow cold.