The Young Hebrew speaks : Yesterday as I lay nigh, dead with toil Underneath the hurtling crane oiled with our blood, Thinking to end all and let the crane crush me, He came by and bore me into the shade : O , what a furnace roarmg in his blood Thawed my congealed sinews and tingled my own Raging through me like a strong cordial. He spoke 1 Smce yesterday Am I not larger grown? I've seen men hugely shapen in soul, Of such unhuman shaggy male turbulence They tower in foam miles from our neck-strained sight, And to their shop only heroes come ; But all were cripples to this speed Constrained to the stables of flesh. I say there is a famine in ripe harvest When hungry giants come as guests : Come knead the hills and ocean into food, There is none for him. The streaming vigours of his blood erupting From his halt tongue are like an anger thrust , Out of a madman's piteous craving for A monstrous balked perfection. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...REMEMBERED WOMEN by CARL SANDBURG RIDDLE: A BLACKSMITH by MOTHER GOOSE A HOUSE by JOHN COLLINGS SQUIRE IDYLLS OF THE KING: THE PASSING OF ARTHUR by ALFRED TENNYSON SAINT TERESA'S BOOK-MARK by THERESA OF AVILA ST. AGNES' MORNING by MAXWELL ANDERSON |