A Wasted Land
Arthur O'Shaughnessy
1844 to 1881
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Alas, for a sound is heard
Of a bitterly song;
Grievous is every word;
And the burden is and long
Like the waves between ebb and flow;
it comes when the winds are low,
Or whenever night is nigh,
And the world hath space for sigh.
It was in the time of fruit;
When peach began to pout,
And the purple grape to shine,
And the leaves were a threadbare suit
For the blood of the vine,
And the spoilers were about
the viper glode at the root:
—She came, and her hand,
With her mouth, yea, and her eyes
hath ravaged all the land;
Its beauty shall no rise:
She hath drawn the wine to her lip.
a mere wanton sip:
Lo, where the vine-branch lies;
Lo, where the drained grapes drip.
Her feet left many stain;
And her lips left many a sting;
She never come again,
And the fruit of everything
Is canker or a pain:
And a memory doth crouch
an asp,—yea, in each part
Where she hath her touch,—
Lying in wait for the heart.