WHO reaps the harvest of his soul, And garners up thought's golden grain, For him in vain life's tempests rave, Fate's rude shocks buffet him in vain. The storms which shipwreck feebler souls, Beat harmlessly on him; the wind, Which whirls away the domes of pride, Braces the sinews of his mind. He is set within a tower of strength, Beyond thick walls and cloisters still; Where, as he sits, no faintest breath Stirs the smooth current of his will. He is stretched in a smiling valley, where, When hills are dark, the full sun shines; Brings gold upon the waving fields, And purple clusters on the vines. He lies in a boundless sylvan shade, While all the fields are parched around; And hears a sweet bird, singing, singing, With one clear monotone of sound. Far, far away from the busy crowd And chaffering of the mart, he stands, Like a statue on a lonely hill, Pondering a scroll within its hands. Or one who, from high convent walls, Looks down at eve upon the plain, And sees the children at their sport, And turns to chant and prayer again; So rich, and yet so very poor, So fruitful, yet so void of fruit; Removed from human hopes and fears, Far as the man is from the brute; So troubled, 'neath a face of calm; So bound with chains, though seeming free; So dead, though with a name to live, That it were better not to be. |