They, and the wilding families,—
Windflower, violet, may,—
They rise from the long, long dark
To the ecstasy of day.
We, scattering troops and kindreds,
From out of the stars wind-blown
To this wayside corner of space,
This world that we call our own,—
We, of the hedge-rows of Time,
We, too, shall divide the sod,