This is my creed: Walk the wide furrows of the spring Sowing ripe seed, Although the grain autumnal birth will bring, Harbour a weed. This is my will: Sing, young and passionate, your song From a high hill, Nor modulate the beat, though one among the throng Use it for ill. Thus have I pled: Prepare a bed where Love himself might rest, Sweet linen spread, Though ere he come, the long-awaited guest, The bride be dead. |