Out of the heat of the usurer's hold,

From the horrible crash of the strong man's feet;

Out of the shadow where pity is dying;

Out of the clamour where beauty is lying,

Dead in the depth of the struggle for gold;

Out of the din and the glare of the street;

Into the arms of our mother we come,

Our broad strong mother, the innocent earth,

Mother of all things beautiful, blameless,

Mother of hopes that her strength makes tameless,

Where the voices of grief and of battle are dumb,

And the whole world laughs with the light of her mirth.

[Pg 19]

Over the fields, where the cool winds sweep,

Black with the mould and brown with the loam,

Where the thin green spears of the wheat are appearing,

And the high-ho shouts from the smoky clearing;

Over the widths where the cloud shadows creep;

Over the fields and the fallows we come;

Over the swamps with their pensive noises,

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