 | English Roses |  |
531
IS THE WIND BLOWING?
Is the wind blowing, brother?
Then arise;
For duty calls thee, not another,
To work that no one may despise;
And though thou wander far, a stray thing
Tossed by each storm and still its plaything,
Thou should'st not wish it otherwise.
For black night cometh on
Thee, as to Babylon
It came and quenched that fair fruition,
And left the Parthenon
A pale tradition.
Then arise;
For duty calls thee, not another,
To work that no one may despise;
And though thou wander far, a stray thing
Tossed by each storm and still its plaything,
Thou should'st not wish it otherwise.
For black night cometh on
Thee, as to Babylon
It came and quenched that fair fruition,
And left the Parthenon
A pale tradition.
Is the sun shining, brother?
Then descend
Into the battle smoke and smother,
And with a worthy foe contend;
Wilt thou not strike when swords are ringing
One gallant blow for honour's bringing,
Ere thou at well-earned feasts unbend?
Ah, this bright beaconing day
Will go its weary way
At last, if now so bold and pleasant,
And ashes cold and gray
Lie on the present.
Then descend
Into the battle smoke and smother,
And with a worthy foe contend;
Wilt thou not strike when swords are ringing
One gallant blow for honour's bringing,
Ere thou at well-earned feasts unbend?
Ah, this bright beaconing day
Will go its weary way
At last, if now so bold and pleasant,
And ashes cold and gray
Lie on the present.
Is the tide flowing, brother?
Then thy bark
Is hailed by it, and not another;
And thou must voyage forth, if dark
Or doubtful seem the dangerous journey
And big with many a toil and tourney—
God is a pilgrim in thy ark;
Till evensong doth call,
And grim as grave-clothes fall
Alike on mountain and green meadow,
What is the doom of all,
The final shadow.
Then thy bark
Is hailed by it, and not another;
And thou must voyage forth, if dark
Or doubtful seem the dangerous journey
And big with many a toil and tourney—
God is a pilgrim in thy ark;
Till evensong doth call,
And grim as grave-clothes fall
Alike on mountain and green meadow,
What is the doom of all,
The final shadow.
532
Is the land waiting, brother?
Then no rest
Is here for thee; earth is thy mother;
And thou must bruise her bosom, prest
With early ploughing and late sowing,
To woo the life that now is growing
And bubbling in her fruitful breast.
Thus of thy goodly corn
The children yet unborn
Shall eat with comfort in their blindness,
And drink (no more forlorn)
Thy milk of kindness.
Then no rest
Is here for thee; earth is thy mother;
And thou must bruise her bosom, prest
With early ploughing and late sowing,
To woo the life that now is growing
And bubbling in her fruitful breast.
Thus of thy goodly corn
The children yet unborn
Shall eat with comfort in their blindness,
And drink (no more forlorn)
Thy milk of kindness.
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