156
POEMS.
Or clover, which my bosom fill?
Who knows how many summers will
Be needed, spent, before one thing
Is ready for my harvesting?
And after all, if all were laid
Into sure balances and weighed,
Who knows if all the gain and get
On which hot human hearts are set
Do more than mark the drought and dearth
Through which this little dust of earth
Must lie and wait in God's great hard,
A patient bit of fallow land?
Who knows how many summers will
Be needed, spent, before one thing
Is ready for my harvesting?
And after all, if all were laid
Into sure balances and weighed,
Who knows if all the gain and get
On which hot human hearts are set
Do more than mark the drought and dearth
Through which this little dust of earth
Must lie and wait in God's great hard,
A patient bit of fallow land?
LOVE'S RICH AND POOR.
AKING me hand in hand,Love led me through his land.
His land bloomed white and red;
His palaces were fair;
Glad people everywhere
Stood smiling.
Then Love said,—
"With all my kingdom wins,
Never my heart begins
To rest; my cruel poor
So rob my rich. By speech,
By look, they overreach,
And plunder every store.
Never my heart begins
To rest; my cruel poor
So rob my rich. By speech,
By look, they overreach,
And plunder every store.
