That which made me was bred of ache and bleeding, Of ageless agony that shrieked and tore: And since all this has gone into the kneading, My substance can endure a little more. What if men labor for deceitful prizes, Or if no prizes crown the thorny strife? We know, beyond the last remote surmises, That life itself is the reward of life. We know each day goes deathward robed in splendor, That night is deep and still and ever dear, That men are warm in friendship, women tender, And that their love brings brimming harvest here, A bright rebirth before the old soul perish, An immortality to touch and cherish. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN APRIL MORNING by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 2. ON THE WINTER SOLSTICE, 1740 by MARK AKENSIDE LILIES: 8 by GEORGE BARLOW (1847-1913) THE WOODLANDS by WILLIAM BARNES MUFFLED by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN IT WAS DEEP APRIL by KATHERINE HARRIS BRADLEY |