Seven Things
The fields of earth are sown
From the hand of the striding rain,
And kernels of joy are strewn
Abroad for the harrow of pain.
I
The first song-sparrow brown
That wakes the earliest spring,
When time and fear sink down,
And death is a fabled thing.
II
The stealing of that first dawn
Over the rosy brow,
When thy soul said, “World, fare on,
For Heaven is here and now!”
III
The crimson shield of the sun
On the wall of this House of Doom,
With the garb of war undone
At last in the narrow room.
IV
A heart that abides to the end,
As the hills for sureness and peace,
And is neither weary to wend
Nor reluctant at last of release.
V
Thy mother’s cradle croon
To haunt thee over the deep,
Out of the land of Boon
Into the land of Sleep.
VI
The sound of the sea in storm,
Hearing its captain cry,
When the wild, white riders form,
And the Ride to the Dark draws nigh.
VII
But last and best, the urge
Of the great world’s desire,
Whose being from core to verge
Only attains to aspire.