English

This year the grain is heavy-ripe;
The apple shows a ruddier stripe;
Never berries so profuse
Blackened with so sweet a juice
On brambly hedges, summer-dyed.
The yellow leaves begin to glide;
But Earth in careless lap-ful treasures
Pledge of over-brimming measures,
As if some rich unwonted zest
Stirred prodigal within her breast.
And now, while plenty's left uncared,
The fruit unplucked, the sickle spared,
Where men go forth to waste and spill,
Toiling to burn, destroy and kill,
Lo, also side by side with these

He asked a priest, “Do you believe all true
You teach the people?” “Oh, dear, no!” said he:
“But then 'twould never do to speak, you see;
For, though we don't believe, the people do!”

He asked one of these people what he thought:
“Do you believe all priests say, to the letter?”
“Oh, no! we are not fools; and we know better.
The priests believe, for that is all they're taught!”

All night the small feet of the rain
Within my garden ran,
And gentle fingers tapped the pane
Until the dawn began.

The rill-like voices called and sang
The slanting roof beside;
“The children of the clouds have come;
Awake! Awake!” they cried.

“Weep no more the drooping rose,
Nor mourn the thirsting tree;
The little children of the storm
Have gained their liberty.”

All night the small feet of the rain
About my garden ran;
Their rill-like voices called and cried
Until the dawn began.

Ye mariners of Spain,
Bend strongly on your oars,
And bring my love again,—
For he lies among the Moors!

Ye galleys fairly built,
Like castles on the sea,
O, great will be your guilt,
If ye bring him not to me!

The wind is blowing strong,—
The breeze will aid your oars;
O, swiftly fly along,—
For he lies among the Moors!

The sweet breeze of the sea
Cools every cheek but mine;
Hot is its breath to me,
As I gaze upon the brine.

Lift up, lift up your sail,

Flower unblown; a book unread; A
A tree with fruit unharvested;
A path untrod; a house whose rooms
Lack yet the heart's divine perfumes:
A landscape whose wide border lies
In silent shade, 'neath silent skies;
A treasure with its gifts concealed—
This is the year that for you waits
Beyond tomorrow's mystic gates.

Flower unblown; a book unread; A
A tree with fruit unharvested;
A path untrod; a house whose rooms
Lack yet the heart's divine perfumes:
A landscape whose wide border lies

The room was low and small and kind;
And in its cupboard old,
The shells were set out to my mind;
The cups I loved with rims of gold.

Then, with that good gift which she had,
My mother showed at will,
David, the ruddy Syrian lad,
With his few sheep upon a hill;

A shop down a rude country street,
The chips strewn on the floor,
And faintly keen across the heat;
The simple kinsfolk at the door;

Mary amid the homely din,
As slim as violet;
The little Jesus just within,

What fier encreaste by rage of wynde
or burnynge mowntayne can yow finde
That doth exceede my flamynge ghoste
what Occean underneath the Skies
Where waves and Billowes more doo ryse
then in the love where I am toste

The springe yeelds nott so many flowers
nor dropps of rayne in Aprill showers
Nor harvest yeelds more ripned graines
nor heaven it self more Starres off lighte
Nor more straunge dreames doo passe the night
then I for yow doo suffer paynes

Theis griefs that on our mynds doo praye

They have gone with a people's hopes and prayers,
Out over the eastern brine,
To strike for the might of Britain's right,
This bit of “the thin red line.”

And over our loyal land to-night,
Where the stars of our freedom shine,
From all true hearts the prayer goes up
For our bit of “the thin red line.”

They have gone to fight the freeman's fight,
For our far-off kith and kin;
Brothers of our own blood and breed,
In the fight where the right must win:

For the sacred cause of freedom's laws,

As one who, nightmare-waked, prepares to scream,
The beads of terror-damp upon his brow,
But, glimpsing streaks of golden dawn, the vow
Of Day to Life, takes heart—so, too, we deem
This vision out of darkness just a gleam,
Vouchsafed by Him to ease our pain. And now
What more can grace of God to us allow
Than making real our people's time-old dream?

O ageless city, dulled by suffering,
But never ruined, old when Tyre was young
And Carthage prospered. What wrought He with them?
Their dust will never see another spring,

O let him whose sorrow
No relief can find,
Trust in God, and borrow
Ease for heart and mind.

Where the mourner weeping
Sheds the secret tear,
God his watch is keeping,
Though none else be near.

God will never leave thee,
All thy wants he knows,
Feels the pains that grieve thee,
Sees thy cares and woes.

Raise thine eyes to heaven
Should thy spirits quail,
When, by tempests driven
Sight and steering fail.

All our woe and trouble
Justice will requite,
All our joys redouble