“Thy Brother’s Blood Crieth” Christina Rossetti

All her corn-fields rippled in the sunshine,
         All her lovely vines, sweets-laden, bowed;
Yet some weeks to harvest and to vintage:
         When, as one man's hand, a cloud
Rose and spread, and, blackening, burst asunder
         In rain and fire and thunder.

Is there nought to reap in the day of harvest?
         Hath the vine in her day no fruit to yield?
Yea, men tread the press, but not for sweetness,
         And they reap a red crop from the field.
Build barns, ye reapers, garner all aright,
         Though your souls be called to-night.

A cry of tears goes up from blackened homesteads,
         A cry of blood goes up from reeking earth:
Tears and blood have a cry that pierces Heaven
         Through all its Hallelujah swells of mirth;
God hears their cry, and though He tarry, yet
         He doth not forget.

Mournful Mother, prone in dust weeping,
         Who shall comfort thee for those who are not?
As thou didst, men do to thee; and heap the measure,
         And heat the furnace sevenfold hot:
As thou once, now these to thee--who pitieth thee
         From sea to sea?