Poor Earth
It is not heaven: bitter seed Leavens its entrails with despair It is a star where dragons breed: Devils have a footing there. The sky has bent it out of shape; The sun has strapped it to his wheel; Its course is crooked to escape Traps and gins of stone and steel. It balances on air, and spins Snared by strong transparent space; I forgive it all its sins; I kiss the scars upon its face.
Elinor Wylie’s other poems:
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