Not while the snow-shroud round dead earth is rolled,
\n And naked branches point to frozen skies.\u201d\u201d
\nWhen orchards burn their lamps of fiery gold,
\n The grape glows like a jewel, and the corn
\nA sea of beauty and abundance lies,
\n Then the new year is born.<\/p>\n
Look where the mother of the months uplifts
\n In the green clearness of the unsunned West,
\nHer ivory horn of plenty, dropping gifts,
\n Cool, harvest-feeding dews, fine-winnowed light;
\nTired labor with fruition, joy and rest
\n Profusely to requite.<\/p>\n
Blow, Israel, the sacred cornet! Call
\n Back to thy courts whatever faint heart throb
\nWith thine ancestral blood, thy need craves all.
\n The red, dark year is dead, the year just born
\nLeads on from anguish wrought by priest and mob,
\n To what undreamed-of morn?<\/p>\n