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Each stroke aright of toil and fight,
That was and that shall be,
Has birth and worth in Thee.
Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee
To gild his dross thereby,
A child until he die-
Is but new Beauty's birth-
The joy of all the earth.
As Thou didst teach all lovers speech,
And Life all mystery,
Till love and longing die,
A whisper in the Void,
When this is clean destroyed.
Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,
Across the pressing dark,
Look hitherward and mark
A light that shifts, a glare that drifts,
Rekindling thus and thus, Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne
Strange tales to them of us.
Time hath no tide but must abide
The servant of Thy will; Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme
The ranging stars stand stillRegent of spheres that lock our fears
Our hopes invisible,
We fashioned Heaven and Hell!
Pure Wisdom hath no certain path
That lacks thy morning-eyne,
Most like to Gods design;
To lift them through the fight,
To give the dead good-night
A veil to draw 'twixt God His Law
And Man's infirmity,
The shambles where we die;
A sum to trick th' arithmetic
Too base of leaguing odds,
Thou handmaid of the Gods!
Oh Charity, all patiently
Abiding wrack and scaith!
Yet drops no jot of faith!
To higher, lordlier show,
The careless angels know!
Thy face is far from this our war,
Our call and counter-cry,
Nor meet Thee till I die.
Yet may I look with heart unshook
On blow brought home or missed-
The clarions down the list;
And ride the barriere-
My Lady is not there!
"To our private taste, there is always something a little exotic, almost artificial, in songs which, under an English aspect and dress, are yet so manifestly the product of other skies. They affect us like translations; the very fauna and flora are alien, remote ; the dog's-tooth violet is but an ill substitute for the rathe primrose, nor can we ever believe that the wood-robin sings as sweetly in April as the English thrush.”—The Athenæum.
Buy my English posies
Kent and Surrey may,
Wet with Channel spray;
Midland furze afire-
And I'll sell your hearts' desire !
Buy my English posies !
You that scorn the may
Green against the draggled drift,
Faint and frail and first-
And I'll know where you were nursed! Robin down the logging-road whistles, “Come
to me,” Spring has found the maple-grove, the sap is run
ning free; All the winds o' Canada call the ploughing
rain. Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your
Buy my English posies !
Here's to match your need.
Buy a bunch of weed
Spun before the gale-
And I'll tell you whence you hail!
Throned and thorned the aching berg props the