James Rorty

I THINK the corn will conquer.

What, shall Death’s black flail,

Forever swinging, lift and fall

Upon these sullen lands

That were so marvellously ripe for love?

I think the corn will conquer.

What, shall that shrill fury Fear—

Crazed, crazed, forever crazed—

Run screeching down these sober hazel lanes,

And no one bid her hush?

I think the corn will conquer.

What, shall man,

Forever wailing “God!” and “God!”

Beat like a sick child

Upon earth’s patient breasts?

I think the corn will conquer;

I have seen

Green acres marching like the sea,

Climbing the ridges,

Riding the hill-tops,

Drawing strength from the warm mist

That wraps the valleys.

I have seen

The red sun lift his battered shield

From out earth’s eastern thunders

And bask amid the corn-tops’ gold;

Until the dawn-wind trumpets from the height

And bids each meadow fling abroad

The yellow waving banners of the corn.

I have seen

Deep in the cool green twilight of the corn

A king’s sword rusting;

How the good red earth

Had sucked its venom!

How the sprawling pumpkin wrapped

The jewelled scabbard in her lewd embrace!

The while I heard

From every clod, from every stalk and blade

A myriad insect voices fifing, “Victory!”