  He who a mangold-patch doth hoe, Sweating beneath a sturdy sun, Clearing each weed-disguisÈd row Till day-light and the task be done, Standeth to view his labour’s scene— Where now, within the hedge-row’s girth, The little plants untrammelled green Stripes the brown fabric of the earth. So when the absolution’s said Behind the grille, and I may go, And all the flowers of sin are dead, And all the stems of sin laid low, And I am come to Mary’s shrine To lay my hopes within her hand— Ah, in how fair and green a line The seedling resolutions stand. |
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