I preached, but fruitlessly; the powerful from their stations

Rebuked me as an anarch, envious and bad,

And they that served them with lean hands and bitter patience

Smiled only out of hollow orbs, and deemed me mad.

And still I preached, and wrought, and still I bore my message,

For well I knew that on and upward without cease

The spirit works for ever, and by Faith and Presage

That somehow yet the end of human life is Peace.

[AMONG THE ORCHARDS]

Already in the dew-wrapped vineyards dry