Be welcome, year! with corn and sickle come;
Make poor the body, but make rich the heart:
What man that bears his sheaves, gold-nodding, home,
Will heed the paint rubbed from his groaning cart!
Nor leave behind thy fears and holy shames,
Thy sorrows on the horizon hanging low—
Gray gathered fuel for the sunset-flames
When joyous in death's harvest-home we go.
TWO RONDELS.
I.
When, in the mid-sea of the night,
I waken at thy call, O Lord,
The first that troop my bark aboard
Are darksome imps that hate the light,
Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight—
Of wraths and cares a pirate horde—
Though on the mid-sea of the night
It was thy call that waked me, Lord.
Then I must to my arms and fight—
Catch up my shield and two-edged sword,
The words of him who is thy word—
Nor cease till they are put to flight;
Then in the mid-sea of the night
I turn and listen for thee, Lord.
II.
There comes no voice from thee, O Lord,
Across the mid-sea of the night!
I lift my voice and cry with might:
If thou keep silent, soon a horde
Of imps again will swarm aboard,
And I shall be in sorry plight
If no voice come from thee, my Lord,
Across the mid-sea of the night.
There comes no voice; I hear no word!
But in my soul dawns something bright:—
There is no sea, no foe to fight!
Thy heart and mine beat one accord:
I need no voice from thee, O Lord,
Across the mid-sea of the night.