"The sickle spares the springing corn.The sapling vine-stems drink unshorn All summer through dawn's dewy boonAnd I, as young and fair, am fainThough now my cup be hard to drain, To hide from Death that calls too soon.
"Let Stoics meet him unaghast;I weep. Before the northern blast I bow my head and lift again.Sad days are nought beside the sweet.What pathway never foiled the feet? What sea but hath its hurricane?
"Within my bosom Hope doth breed,And prison-bars stay not the speed Of his wide wings that will not fold;Scaped from the fowler's snare he fliesMy blithe sweet bird o'er the wide skies, And sings with heart too full to hold.
"Is death for me? With hope unquelledI breathe, awake or slumber-held, Free from remorse for evil done.And with each dawn in this dark placeAll eyes speak welcome for the face Makes glad the heart of every one.
"Of milestones on my destined roadScarce have I counted one, or strode Beyond the trees about my home.Scarce have I yet or broken breadAt the rich board that life doth spread, Or sipped the full cup still afoam.
"My life's at Spring. I would beholdThe harvest yield, and, onward rolled, Would like the sun bear high my crown.Fair on my stem the garden's queen.The dawn-light my young eyes have seen And yearn to see the sun go down.
"Death thou mayst wait. Go! get thee hence.Heal thou the wounds of shame's offence In hearts whereon despair doth brood.For me Pan lurks, and sweet DesireHath kisses and the Muses quire. I will not die in Maidenhood."
Thus, sad and captive, as she spokeMy lyre was stirred and silence broke, In pity with her moaning blent.And, shaking off my load of care,I caught the song in rhyme's soft snare, From her sweet lips and innocent.
And thus these rhymes in prison twinedMay tempt some soul of studious mind To seek the lady who thus woo'd.So fair the face and words that pledThat into all were death most dread Within her gracious neighbourhood.
