Iii

One says in scorn, ‘The strife To live well keeps us well, And ’tis the unworthy life That makes the prison cell.’

And one, ‘An angel stood On sands of withering heat; The flowerless solitude Grew green beneath his feet.’

A third, ‘Many would lief Endure thy solitude As else. Ascribe thy grief To poison in the blood.’

And I, ‘O Soul, content Yet in thine exile dwell, And live up to thy bent. Not more than well is well;

But take the sports divine, The largesse of the earth; Wind-drinking steeds be thine And blowsèd chase—the mirth

Of those who wisely draw Their lives in nature’s vein And live in the large law, Of slaying or being slain.

‘Or learn by looking round. Lift up thine eyes. Avow The gardener of thy ground Doth worthier work than thou.

From his poor cot he wends At early break of day; His pretty charges tends In his unskilful way.

Much wearied with his toil He labours thro’ the hours, And pours upon the soil Refreshment for his flowers.

‘Tho’ bent with aged stoop, To him no rest is given, But the heads of those that droop He raises up to heaven.

Half ready for the grave, His weakness he forgets, More scrupulous to save The breath of violets.

But at the evening hour When he shall seek repose, The voice of every flower Will bless him as he goes.’

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