  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.
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