'Is Sin, then, fair?'

So often have I met death face to face, His eyes now wear the welcome of a friend's.

'How slayeth Sin?' First, God is hid, And the heart within By its own self chid; Then the maddened brain Is scourged by pain

'Oh, curses on you hand and head, Like the rains in this wild weather The guilt of blood is swift and dread, Your sister's face is cold and dead, Ye may not part whom God would wed And love hath knit together.'

Growing to full manhood now, With the care-lines on our brow, We, the youngest of the nations, With no childish lamentations, Weep, as only strong men weep, For the noble hearts that sleep,

I saw Time in his workshop carving faces; Scattered around his tools lay, blunting griefs, Sharp cares that cut out deeply in reliefs Of light and shade: sorrows that smooth the traces Of what were smiles.

Clay was I; the potter Thou With Thy thumb-nail smooth'dst my brow, Rolltdst the spittle-moistened sands Into limbs between Thy hands. [...] Strong Thou mad'st me, till at length