O Lover, for the maze of doom Is thine the golden clue? Down by the sullen alder-pool The wood is grown for you. Across the black and freshening field, Beneath the bitter blue, A Sower swings his rhythmic hands. Hempseed is sown for you. What matter—if the love of Love Be coft with all the shame! By water, land, or giddy air The sleep is much the same! |