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de CLEYRE, Voltairine “The Hurricane”
"We are the birds of the coming storm." — August Spies
Article published on 18 September 2009
last modification on 25 April 2015

by r-c.
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SEA ISLE CITY, N. J., August, 1889.

Published in The Worml Turns

You may also listen to this poem, read by Lucy Perry on the LibriVox website

The tide is out, the wind blows off the shore;
Bare burn the white sands in the scorching sun;
The sea complains, but its great voice is low.
 
Bitter thy woes, O People,
And the burden
Hardly to be borne!
Wearily grows, O People,
All the aching
Of thy pierced heart, bruised and torn!
But yet thy time is not,
And low thy moaning.
Desert thy sands!
Not yet is thy breath hot,
Vengefully blowing;
It wafts o’er lifted hands.
 
The tide has turned; the vane veers slowly round;
Slow clouds are sweeping o’er the blinding light;
White crests curl on the sea— its voice grows deep.
 
Angry thy heart, O People!
And its bleeding
Fire-tipped with rising hate!
Thy clasped hands part, O People,
For thy praying
Warmed not the desolate!
God did not hear thy moan:
Now it is swelling
To a great drowning cry;
A dark wind-cloud, a groan,
Now backward veering
From that deaf sky!

arrow On web : You may read the whole poem on the Encyclopedia or the Recollection Books website

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