Yea, we are labourers all; Even as bees for man Gather the honey from flowers, So do we labour for God Unwittingly. Yea, and the days Bringeth to each his reward, A final sleep and a peace. Swiftly they pass, the days, Winged with flame are their feet, Devouring us and our kin, As flame the stubble consumes. But the grain is garnered, perchance, In the great, wide barns of God, Laid up in a golden heap, As a wise king's treasury is Heaped with the yellow gold.
Lovely thou art, O Dawn! Creating, out of the dark, This bright, and beautiful world Again: and leading each day As a bride to man, whence he Begets him wonderful deeds. And, surely, because thine hands Lead us at last to peace, Lovely thou art, O Dawn!
APRIL DANCE-SONG
TO MISS DORA CURTIS
April with her fleet, sweet, Silver rain, and sun-rays, Cometh, and her feet beat Lightly, on the lawn. Softly, for her sake, break Flowering the wet boughs; By the brimming lake, wake Lilies every dawn.
Broken on the stream, gleam Rays, to drown where weeds wave; Shining with her dream, seem April's eyes bedewed. Shakes a silver chain, rain Chiming with her music; Life, that long hath lain slain Riseth up renewed.
Softly as a dove, Love Croons beneath the twilight; While the winds above move Softly through the night. Out of all the skies, dies Light, and only stars shine: Stars to me her wise eyes, And her face a light.