That I may take from friends but as the stream
Creates again the hawthorn bloom adream
Above the river sill;
That I may see the spurge upon the wall
And hear the nesting birds give call to call,
Keeping my wonder new;
That I may have a body fit to mate
With the green fields, and stars, and streams in spate,
And clean as clover-dew;
That I may have the courage to confute
All fools with silence when they will dispute,
All fools who will deride;
That I may know all strict and sinewy art
As that in man which is the counterpart,
Lord, of Thy fiercest pride;
That somehow this beloved earth may wear
A later grace for all the love I bear,
For some song that I sing;
That, when I die, this word may stand for me—
He had a heart to praise, an eye to see,
And beauty was his king.
HARVESTING
Pale sheaves of oats, pocked by untimely rain,
Under October skies,
Teased and forlorn,
Ungathered lie where still the tardy wain
Comes not to seal
The seasons of the corn,
From prime to June, with running barns of grain.
Now time with me is at the middle year,
The register of youth
Is now to sing ...
My thoughts are ripe, my moods are in full ear;
That they should fail
Of harvesting,
Uncarried on cold fields, is all my fear.