| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | The Conqueror | | By James Rorty |
| | | I THINK the corn will conquer. | |
| What, shall Death’s black flail, | |
| Forever swinging, lift and fall | |
| Upon these sullen lands | |
| That were so marvellously ripe for love? | 5 |
| |
| I think the corn will conquer. | |
| What, shall that shrill fury Fear— | |
| Crazed, crazed, forever crazed— | |
| Run screeching down these sober hazel lanes, | |
| And no one bid her hush? | 10 |
| |
| I think the corn will conquer. | |
| What, shall man, | |
| Forever wailing “God!” and “God!” | |
| Beat like a sick child | |
| Upon earth’s patient breasts? | 15 |
| |
| I think the corn will conquer; | |
| I have seen | |
| Green acres marching like the sea, | |
| Climbing the ridges, | |
| Riding the hill-tops, | 20 |
| Drawing strength from the warm mist | |
| That wraps the valleys. | |
| |
| I have seen | |
| The red sun lift his battered shield | |
| From out earth’s eastern thunders | 25 |
| And bask amid the corn-tops’ gold; | |
| Until the dawn-wind trumpets from the height | |
| And bids each meadow fling abroad | |
| The yellow waving banners of the corn. | |
| |
| I have seen | 30 |
| Deep in the cool green twilight of the corn | |
| A king’s sword rusting; | |
| How the good red earth | |
| Had sucked its venom! | |
| How the sprawling pumpkin wrapped | 35 |
| The jewelled scabbard in her lewd embrace! | |
| The while I heard | |
| From every clod, from every stalk and blade | |
| A myriad insect voices fifing, “Victory!” | | | | |
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