The Hurricane

"We are the birds of the coming storm." — August Spies

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!

The tide flows in, the wind roars from the depths,
The whirled-White sand heaps with the foam-white waves;
Thundering the sea rolls o'er its shell-crunched wall!

   Strong is thy rage, O People,
      In its fury
      Hurling thy tyrants down!
   Thou metest wage, O People.
      Very swiftly,
   Now that thy hate is grown:
   Thy time at last is come;
      Thou heapest anguish,
   Where thou thyself wert bare!
   No longer to thy dumb.
      God clasped and kneeling.
   Thou answerest thine own prayer.

Voltairine de Cleyre 

(Picture: Detail of Mural of Mina, Vela Zanetti)