POOR EARTHBy Elinor WylieIT is not heaven: bitter seedLeavens its entrails with despairIt is a star where dragons breed:Devils have a footing there.

The sky has bent it out of shape;The sun has strapped it to his wheel;Its course is crooked to escapeTraps and gins of stone and steel.

It balances on air, and spinsSnared by strong transparent space;I forgive it all its sins;I kiss the scars upon its face.

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