I am the Sower. All the unbodied life Runs through my seed-sheet. Atom with atom wed, Each quickening the other, Fall through my hands, ever changing, still changeless Ceaselessly sowing, Life, incorruptible life, Flows from my seed-sheet. Maker and breaker, I am the ebb and the flood, Here and Hereafter. Sped through the tangle and coil Of infinite nature, Viewless and soundless I fashion all being. Taker and giver, I am the womb and the grave, The Now and the Ever. 1875 VI PRAISE the generous gods for giving In a world of wrath and strife With a little time for living, Unto all the joy of life. At whatever source we drink it, Art or love or faith or wine, In whatever terms we think it, It is common and divine. Praise the high gods, for in giving This to man, and this alone, They have made his chance of living Shine the equal of their own. 1875 VII FILL a glass with golden wine, And the while your lips are wet Set their perfume unto mine, And forget, Every kiss we take and give Leaves us less of life to live. Yet again! Your whim and mine In a happy while have met. All your sweets to me resign, Nor regret That we press with every breath, Sighed or singing, nearer death. 1875 VIII WE’LL go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. November glooms are barren beside the dusk of June. The summer flowers are faded, the summer thoughts are sere. We’ll go no more a-roving, lest worse befall, my dear. We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. The song we sang rings hollow, and heavy runs the tune. Glad ways and words remembered would shame the wretched year. We’ll go no more a-roving, nor dream we did, my dear. We’ll go no more a-roving by the light of the moon. If yet we walk together, we need not shun the noon. No sweet thing left to savour, no sad thing left to fear, We’ll go no more a-roving, but weep at home, my dear. 1875 IX _To_ W. R. MADAM Life’s a piece in bloom Death goes dogging everywhere: She’s the tenant of the room, He’s the ruffian on the stair. You shall see her as a friend, You shall bilk him once and twice; But he’ll trap you in the end, And he’ll stick you for her price. With his kneebones at your chest, And his knuckles in your throat, You would reason—plead—protest! Clutching at her petticoat; But she’s heard it all before, Well she knows you’ve had your fun, Gingerly she gains the door, And your little job is done.