The rowers lift their oars to view Each other in the sea; The landsmen watch the rocking boats In a pleasant company; While up the hill go gladlier still Dear friends by two and three. III. The peasant's wife hath looked without Her cottage door and smiled, For there the peasant drops his spade To clasp his youngest child Which hath no speech, but its hand can reach And stroke his forehead mild. IV. A poet sate that eventide Within his hall alone, As silent as its ancient lords In the coffined place of stone, When the bat hath shrunk from the praying monk, And the praying monk is gone. V. Nor wore the dead a stiller face Beneath the cerement's roll: His lips refusing out in words Their mystic thoughts to dole, His steadfast eye burnt inwardly, As burning out his soul. VI. You would not think that brow could e'er Ungentle moods express, Yet seemed it, in this troubled world, Too calm for gentleness, When the very star that shines from far Shines trembling ne'ertheless. VII. It lacked, all need, the softening light Which other brows supply: We should conjoin the scathèd trunks Of our humanity, That each leafless spray entwining may Look softer 'gainst the sky. VIII. None gazed within the poet's face, The poet gazed in none; He threw a lonely shadow straight Before the moon and sun, Affronting nature's heaven-dwelling creatures With wrong to nature done: IX. Because this poet daringly, --The nature at his heart, And that quick tune along his veins He could not change by art,-- Had vowed his blood of brotherhood To a stagnant place apart. X. He did not vow in fear, or wrath, Or grief's fantastic whim, But, weights and shows of sensual things Too closely crossing him, On his soul's eyelid the pressure slid And made its vision dim. XI. And darkening in the dark he strove 'Twixt earth and sea and sky To lose in shadow, wave and cloud, His brother's haunting cry: The winds were welcome as they swept, God's five-day work he would accept, But let the rest go by. XII. He cried, "O touching, patient Earth That weepest in thy glee, Whom God created very good, And very mournful, we! Thy voice of moan doth reach His throne, As Abel's rose from thee. XIII. "Poor crystal sky with stars astray! Mad winds that howling go From east to west! perplexèd seas That stagger from their blow! O motion wild! O wave defiled! Our curse hath made you so. XIV. '_We!_ and _our_ curse! do _I_ partake The desiccating sin? Have _I_ the apple at my lips? The money-lust within? Do _I_ human stand with the wounding hand, To the blasting heart akin? XV.