Songs that could span the earth, When leaping thought had stirred them, In many an hour since birth, We heard or dreamed we heard them. Sometimes to all their sway We yield ourselves half fearing, Sometimes with hearts grown grey We curse ourselves for hearing. We toil and but begin; In vain our spirits fret them, We strive, and cannot win, Nor evermore forget them. A light that will not stand, That comes and goes in flashes, Fair fruits that in the hand Are turned to dust and ashes. Yet still the deep thoughts ring Around and through and through us, Sweet mights that make us sing, But bring no resting to us. ONE DAY. The trees rustle; the wind blows Merrily out of the town; The shadows creep, the sun goes Steadily over and down. In a brown gloom the moats gleam; Slender the sweet wife stands; Her lips are red; her eyes dream; Kisses are warm on her hands. The child moans; the hours slip Bitterly over her head: In a gray dusk, the tears drip; Mother is up there dead. The hermit hears the strange bright Murmur of life at play; In the waste day and the waste night Times to rebel and to pray. The laborer toils in gray wise, Godlike and patient and calm; The beggar moans; his bleared eyes Measure the dust in his palm. The wise man marks the flow and ebb Hidden and held aloof: In his deep mind is laid the web, Shuttles are driving the woof. SLEEP.