EX-VOTO.
119
This death as others?
Was it no ease to think
The chalice from whose brink
Fate gave me death to drink
Was thine—my mother's?
Thee too, the all‑fostering earth,
Fair as thy fairest birth,
More than thy worthiest worth,
We call, we know thee,
More sweet and just and dread
Than live men highest of head
Or even thy holiest dead
Laid low below thee.
The sunbeam on the sheaf,
The dewfall on the leaf,
All joy, all grace, all grief,
Are thine for giving;
