POET:
Consider the lowly grasses
Which feed the flocks upon the hills
And pour loaves exhaustlessly from the fields of the
valleys ; And those cunning chemists, all the clover-tribe, Lading the air of June with sweets, Distilling honey for the bees. And from the air recovering to unwearied Earth her
nitrogen.
TRUTH: O circle of fertility complete. The endless cycles.
POET: So must Life endless be, as if not yet begun.
XIX.
POET: Sorrow is beloved of the eternities. Her watch-tower is the very pinnacle of the mountains. She sees the hut of the fisher-man, Nestled in the cleft of rocks, just beyond the edge of
foam. She sees on a hill-top the palace of him who has sucked
the life of the workers. Her eyes are sad as the moon when it has fallen, But her lips are firm as the lips of a wrestler. She is the great sculptor, fashioning the soul to form. The stroking of her hand gives us strength ; And she moulds us unto beauty.
TRUTH: She holds Knowledge between her knees. As a child between the knees of his mother.
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