XV
It is her destiny. She seems to sleep.
She dreams; and nodding, world on world is born.
For her the splendour of an eastern morn
The Coromandel sands profusely steep;
The rocks of Aden sentinel the deep.
Her paths are round the Cape and round the Horn.
And where the sun goes down in seas of corn
Across the West their way her children reap.
Thus ere she hath outdreamt herself, the wheels
Of her achievement on their axle-trees
Have turned without her; and upon her steals
A sense of waking amidst unknown seas;
And wondering at her motherhood, she feels
The greatness of the Thing upon her knees.
Hesepe, 13th July