  WHAT art Thou sowing in the garden-ground, Sowing, sowing with such pain? Clouds are overhead, and all around Spring hath fallen spring-rain Of seed-growing power. Lo, where Thou bowest down, it seems a shower Hath laid the grass, as rain ran through, Engendering rain, stronger than early dew. It is Thy Agony that pierces deep Through the sod of that still place; For Thou bowest down where Thou dost weep, Bowest down Thy face; And Thou sowest seed, Drops of Thy most Holy Blood, that bleed Through brow and limbs in sweat, and stay Red on the Earth, while the tears sink away. Sower, what herb shall spring, what flower be born? Will pomegranate-apples hang, When we pass this way, some morn? Struck with spring’s own pang, This our eyes will see— Faith that shoulders great buds lustily; Hope that shoots up a hundredfold; And Love in roses wondrous to behold. |
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