Page:Poems and ballads (IA balladspoems00swinrich).pdf/135

 This death as others? Was it no ease to think The chalice from whose brink Fate gave me death to drink Was thine—my mother's?

Thee too, the all‑fostering earth, Fair as thy fairest birth, More than thy worthiest worth, We call, we know thee, More sweet and just and dread Than live men highest of head Or even thy holiest dead Laid low below thee.

The sunbeam on the sheaf, The dewfall on the leaf, All joy, all grace, all grief, Are thine for giving;