The Earth cries out in despair, With dreadful eyes it looks around: There’s so little left to spare, Who can be whipped for that or bound?
If Beauty seeks refuge in garlands, Pretending blind, but badly wounded - Let not us hide in shrieking silence, Let not subdue to being hounded.
Which of the senses claims forgiveness? When foliage dies, who buries ashes? Without smoke who needs the chimneys, Or stormy sea without splashes?
Let not the blasphemous intruder Awaken Nature’s last convulsion. His crash could never be but smoother Than Earth with groaning repulsion.