Perchance his own small field some charge demands: So full the eternal choral sobs and swells, But clear away the weeds, although there lurk Within the weeds a few dim asphodels, Flowers of a former day, how fair, how fair! And yet behold them not, but to the work, Before the short light darken, set thy hands: Nor over the surface dip with easy share, But beam-deep, plough and plunge your parallels, Breaking in clod and flower, that so may spring From the deep grain a goodlier growth and kind, Unstirred of heats that blast, of frosts that bind, Nor swept aside ere the seed catch, by wing Of casual shower nor any chance of wind. |