There is for them not anything before, But sound of sea and sight of soundless shore, Save when the darkness glimmers with a ray, And Hope sings softly, _Soon it will be day_. Then for a golden space the shades are thinned, And dawn seems blowing seaward on the wind. But soon the dark comes wilder than before, And swift around them breaks a sullen roar; The tempest calls to windward and to lea, And--they are seabirds on the homeless sea. A Harvest Song The gray bulk of the granaries uploom against the sky; The harvest moon has dwindled--they have housed the corn and rye; And now the idle reapers lounge against the bolted doors: Without are hungry harvesters, within enchanted stores. Lo, they had bread while they were out a-toiling in the sun: Now they are strolling beggars, for the harvest work is done. They are the gods of husbandry: they gather in the sheaves, But when the autumn strips the wood, they’re drifting with the leaves. They plow and sow and gather in the glory of the corn; They know the noon, they know the pitiless rains before the morn; They know the sweep of furrowed fields that darken in the gloom-- A little while their hope on earth, then evermore the tomb. Two Taverns I remember how I lay On a bank a summer day, Peering into weed and flower: Watched a poppy all one hour; Watched it till the air grew chill In the darkness of the hill; Till I saw a wild bee dart Out of the cold to the poppy’s heart; Saw the petals gently spin, And shut the little lodger in. Then I took the quiet road To my own secure abode. All night long his tavern hung; Now it rested, now it swung; I asleep in steadfast tower, He asleep in stirring flower; In our hearts the same delight In the hushes of the night; Over us both the same dear care As we slumbered unaware. The Man under the Stone When I see a workingman with mouths to feed, Up, day after day, in the dark before the dawn, And coming home, night after night, through the dusk, Swinging forward like some fierce silent animal, I see a man doomed to roll a huge stone up an endless steep. He strains it onward inch by stubborn inch, Crouched always in the shadow of the rock.... See where he crouches, twisted, cramped, misshapen! He lifts for their life; The veins knot and darken-- Blood surges into his face.... Now he loses--now he wins-- Now he loses--loses--(God of my soul!) He digs his feet into the earth-- There’s a moment of terrified effort. Will the huge stone break his hold, And crush him as it plunges to the gulf? The silent struggle goes on and on, Like two contending in a dream. Song to the Divine Mother[A]