A wild spring upland all this charmed page, Where, in the early dawn, the maenads rage, Mad, chaste, and lovely! This, a darker spot Where lone Antigone bewails her lot....
Shall I not give this world my heart, and well? If for naught else, for many a miracle Of the impassioned spring, the rose, the snow? Nay, by the spring that still must come and go...
Dost thou burn low and tremble, all but die? And dost thou fear in darkness to be whirled? Nay, flame, thou art mine immortality, The wind is but the passing of the world!
Lord of all strength, behold, I am but frail! Lord of all harvest, few the grapes and pale Allotted for my wine-press! Thou, Lord, Who boldest in thy gift the tempered sword....
Stand up, you Strong! Touch glasses! To the Weak! The Weak who fight: or habit or disease, Birth, chance, or ignorance, or awful wreak Of some lost forbear, who has drained the cup...
Spare us, Lord, that last, that dreariest ill! Thy wrath's grim thunder, and thy lightning-scorn For our iniquity, that we have worn Soft as a grace, these, if it be thy will,...
Mine is the shape forever set between The thought and form, the vision and the deed; The hidden light, the glory all unseen, I bring to mortal senses, mortal need. ...