The new husbandman

  Brother that ploughs the furrow I late ploughed,
    God give thee grace, and fruitful harvesting,
  Tis fair sweet earth, be it under sun or cloud,
    And all about it ever the birds sing.

  Yet do I pray your seed fares not as mine
    That sowed there stars along with good white grain,
  But reaped thereof—­be better fortune thine—­
    Nettles and bitter herbs, for all my gain.

  Inclement seasons and black winds, perchance,
    Poisoned and soured the fragrant fecund soil,
  Till I sowed poppies ’gainst remembrance,
    And took to other furrows my laughing toil.

  And other men as I that ploughed before
    Shall watch thy harvest, trusting thou mayst reap
  Where we have sown, and on your threshing floor
    Have honest grain within thy barns to keep.

  Paths that wind . . .

  Paths that wind
  O’er the hills and by the streams
  I must leave behind—­
  Dawns and dews and dreams. 
  Trails that go
  Through the woods and down the slopes
  To the vale below;
  Done with fears and hopes,
  I must wander on
  Till the purple twilight ends,
  Where the sun has gone—­
  Faces, flowers and friends.

  The immortal gods

  The gods are there, they hide their lordly faces
    From you that will not kneel—­
    Worship, and they reveal,
      Call—­and ’tis they! 
  They have not changed, nor moved from their high places,
      The stars stream past their eyes like drifted spray;
  Lovely to look on are they as bright gold,
    They are wise with beauty, as a pool is wise. 
    Lonely with lilies; very sweet their eyes—­
  Bathed deep in sunshine are they, and very cold.

  III

  Ballade of woman

  A woman! lightly the mysterious word
    Falls from our lips, lightly as though we knew
  Its meaning, as we say—­a flower, a bird,
    Or say the moon, the stream, the light, the dew,
    Simple familiar things, mysterious too;
  Or as a star is set down on a chart,
    Named with a name, out yonder in the blue: 
  A woman—­and yet how much more thou art!

  So lightly spoken, and so lightly heard,
    And yet, strange word, who shall thy sense construe? 
  What sage hath yet fit designation dared? 
    Yet I have sought the dictionaries through,
    And of thy meaning found me not a clue;
  Blessing and breaking still the firmest heart,
    So fairy false, yet so divinely true: 
  A woman—­and yet how much more thou art!

  Mother of God, and Circe, bosom-bared,
    That nursed our manhood, and our manhood slew;
  First dream, last sigh, all the long way we fared,
    Sweeter than honey, bitterer than rue;
    Thou fated radiance sorrowing men pursue,
  Thou art the whole of life—­the rest but part
    Of thee, all things we ever dream or do;
  A woman—­and yet how much more thou art!