SOWING

One mocked: “Thy brain is mad with wine;

The fairies spin the threads of night,

And pour their vials of sour blight

About the roots of health, yet thine

And thou, ye garner into verse

Bright flowers to trick a solemn hearse:

The cowslip, maiden-love of spring,

The burning incense of the rose,

The austere lily, her that blows

By winter's marge — each gracious thing

Past or unborn. Weak, trusting fool!

Old Time shall file thee in his school.”

“I know not Time, his last or first;

With master hands I despoil all

His hoarded sweetness and his gall.

I crush the aeons for my thirst,

And so am mad. Pencils of fire

Limn visions of soul-large desire.

In Faith I cast on frozen ground

An obscure life of sweat and tears;

In the far Autumn of the years

Men reap full harvests, springing round,

And judge them gifts of kindly chance,

My deed laughs through each mellow lance.”