'Oh, curses on you hand and head

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

'Is Sin, then, fair?' Nay, love, come now, Put back the hair From his sunny brow; See, here, blood-red Across his head

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

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