I am Thy grass, O Lord! I grow up sweet and tall But for a day, beneath Thy sword To lie at evenfall. Yet have I not enough In that brief day of mine? The wind, the bees, the wholesome stuff The sun pours out like wine. Behold, this is my crown,— Love will not let me be; Love holds me here; Love cuts me down; And it is well with me. Lord, Love, keep it but so; Thy purpose is full plain: I die that after I may grow As tall, as sweet again.
Keep back the one word more, Nor give of your whole store; For, it may be, in Art’s sole hour of need, Lacking that word, you shall be poor indeed.
An english lad, who, reading in a book, A ponderous, leathern thing set on his knee, Saw the broad violet of the Egean Sea Lap at his feet as it were village brook. Wide was the east; the gusts of morning shook; Immortal laughter beat along that shore; Pan, crouching in the reeds, piped as of...
Along the pastoral ways I go, To get the healing of the trees, The ghostly news the hedges know; To hive me honey like the bees, Against the time of snow. The common hawthorn that I see, Beside the sunken wall astir, Or any other blossoming tree, Is each God’s fair white gospeller, His book upon...
I am Thy grass, O Lord! I grow up sweet and tall But for a day, beneath Thy sword To lie at evenfall. Yet have I not enough In that brief day of mine? The wind, the bees, the wholesome stuff The sun pours out like wine. Behold, this is my crown,— Love will not let me be; Love holds me...
Snatch the departing mood; Make yours its emptying reed, and pipe us still Faith in the time, faith in our common blood, Faith in the least of good: Song cannot fail if these its spirits fill! What if your heritage be The huddled trees along the smoky ways; At a street’s end the stretch of lilac...
