Leaf by leaf by reapers of long-sown seed: 
     There doth our shoot up to light from a spiriting sane
     Stand as a tree whereon numberless clusters grow: 
     Legible there how the heart, with its one false move
     Cast Eurydice pallor on all we love.

     Our fervid heart has filled that Book in chief;
     Our fitful heart a wild reflection views;
     Our craving heart of passion suckling grief
     Disowns the author’s work it must peruse;
     Inconscient in its leap to wreak the deed,
     A round of harvests red from crimson seed,
     It marks the current Hours show leaf by leaf,
     And rails at Destiny; nor traces clues;
     Though sometimes it may think what novel light
     Will strike their faces when the mind shall write.

     II

     Succourful daughters of men are the rosed and starred
     Revolving Twelves in their fluent germinal rings,
     Despite the burden to chasten, abase, depose. 
     Fallen on France, as the sweep of scythe over sward,
     They breathed in her ear their voice of the crystal springs,
     That run from a twilight rise, from a twilight close,
     Through alternate beams and glooms, rejoicingly young. 
     Only to Earth’s best loved, at the breathless turns
     Where Life in fold of the Shadow reclines unstrung,
     And a ghostly lamp of their moment’s union burns,
     Will such pure notes from the fountain-head be sung.

     Voice of Earth’s very soul to the soul she would see renewed: 
     A song that sought no tears, that laid not a touch on the breast
     Sobbing aswoon and, like last foxgloves’ bells upon ferns
     In sandy alleys of woodland silence, shedding to bare. 
     Daughters of Earth and men, they piped of her natural brood;
     Her patient helpful four-feet; wings on the flit or in nest;
     Paws at our old-world task to scoop a defensive lair;
     Snouts at hunt through the scented grasses; enhavened scuts
     Flashing escape under show of a laugh nigh the mossed burrow-mouth. 
     Sack-like droop bronze pears on the nailed branch-frontage of huts,
     To greet those wedded toilers from acres where sweat is a shower. 
     Snake, cicada, lizard, on lavender slopes up South,
     Pant for joy of a sunlight driving the fielders to bower. 
     Sharpened in silver by one chance breeze is the olive’s grey;
     A royal-mantle floats, a red fritillary hies;
     The bee, for whom no flower of garden or wild has nay,
     Noises, heard if but named, so hot is the trade he plies. 
     Processions beneath green arches of herbage, the long colonnades;
     Laboured mounds that a foot or a wanton stick may subvert;
     Homely are they for a lowly look on bedewed grass-blades,
     On citied fir-droppings, on twisted wreaths of the worm in dirt. 
     Does nought so loosen