Unto a spirit too light for fear His wrath was mirth, his wail was glee:-- My heart is now too fixed to bow Tho' all his tempests howl at me: For to the gain life's summer saves, My solemn joy's increasing store, The tossing of his mournful waves Makes sweetest music evermore. 28 My spirit kisseth thine, My spirit embraceth thee: I feel thy being twine Her graces over me, In the life-kindling fold Of God's breath; where on high, In furthest space untold Like a lost world I lie: And o'er my dreaming plains Lightens, most pale and fair, A moon that never wanes; Or more, if I compare, Like what the shepherd sees On late mid-winter dawns, When thro' the branchèd trees, O'er the white-frosted lawns, The huge unclouded sun, Surprising the world whist, Is all uprisen thereon, Golden with melting mist. 29 Ariel, O,--my angel, my own,-- Whither away then art thou flown Beyond my spirit's dominion? That makest my heart run over with rhyme, Renewing at will my youth for a time, My servant, my pretty minion. Now indeed I have cause to mourn, Now thou returnest scorn for scorn: Leave me not to my folly: For when thou art with me is none so gay As I, and none when thou'rt away Was ever so melancholy. 30 LAUS DEO Let praise devote thy work, and skill employ Thy whole mind, and thy heart be lost in joy. Well-doing bringeth pride, this constant thought Humility, that thy best done is nought. Man doeth nothing well, be it great or small, Save to praise God; but that hath savèd all: For God requires no more than thou hast done, And takes thy work to bless it for his own. BOOK V DEDICATED TO M. G. K. I THE WINNOWERS Betwixt two billows of the downs The little hamlet lies, And nothing sees but the bald crowns Of the hills, and the blue skies. Clustering beneath the long descent And grey slopes of the wold, The red roofs nestle, oversprent With lichen yellow as gold. We found it in the mid-day sun Basking, what time of year The thrush his singing has begun, Ere the first leaves appear. High from his load a woodman pitched His faggots on the stack: Knee-deep in straw the cattle twitched Sweet hay from crib and rack: And from the barn hard by was borne A steady muffled din, By which we knew that threshèd corn Was winnowing, and went in. The sunbeams on the motey air Streamed through the open door, And on the brown arms moving bare, And the grain upon the floor. One turns the crank, one stoops to feed The hopper, lest it lack, One in the bushel scoops the seed, One stands to hold the sack.