Clay was I; the potter Thou

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

'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.

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

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