Interpret me the savage whirr: 
     And is it Nature scourged, or she,
     Her offspring’s executioner,
     Reducing land to barren sea? 
     But is there meaning in a day
     When this fierce angel of the air,
     Intent to throw, and haply slay,
     Can for what breath of life we bear,
     Exact the wrestle?—­Call to mind
     The many meanings glistening up
     When Nature to her nurslings kind,
     Hands them the fruitage and the cup! 
     And seek we rich significance
     Not otherwhere than with those tides
     Of pleasure on the sunned expanse,
     Whose flow deludes, whose ebb derides?

     Look in the face of men who fare
     Lock-mouthed, a match in lungs and thews
     For this fierce angel of the air,
     To twist with him and take his bruise. 
     That is the face beloved of old
     Of Earth, young mother of her brood: 
     Nor broken for us shows the mould
     When muscle is in mind renewed: 
     Though farther from her nature rude,
     Yet nearer to her spirit’s hold: 
     And though of gentler mood serene,
     Still forceful of her fountain-jet. 
     So shall her blows be shrewdly met,
     Be luminously read the scene
     Where Life is at her grindstone set,
     That she may give us edgeing keen,
     String us for battle, till as play
     The common strokes of fortune shower. 
     Such meaning in a dagger-day
     Our wits may clasp to wax in power. 
     Yea, feel us warmer at her breast,
     By spin of blood in lusty drill,
     Than when her honeyed hands caressed,
     And Pleasure, sapping, seemed to fill.

     Behold the life at ease; it drifts. 
     The sharpened life commands its course. 
     She winnows, winnows roughly; sifts,
     To dip her chosen in her source: 
     Contention is the vital force,
     Whence pluck they brain, her prize of gifts,
     Sky of the senses! on which height,
     Not disconnected, yet released,
     They see how spirit comes to light,
     Through conquest of the inner beast,
     Which Measure tames to movement sane,
     In harmony with what is fair. 
     Never is Earth misread by brain: 
     That is the welling of her, there
     The mirror:  with one step beyond,
     For likewise is it voice; and more,
     Benignest kinship bids respond,
     When wail the weak, and them restore
     Whom days as fell as this may rive,
     While Earth sits ebon in her gloom,
     Us atomies of life alive
     Unheeding, bent on life to come. 
     Her children of the labouring brain,
     These are the champions of the race,
     True parents, and the sole humane,
     With understanding for their base. 
     Earth yields the milk, but all her mind
     Is vowed to thresh for stouter stock.