Contrast to the present hour! As a sage might leave a coast Where the cities shambles are, And the people herded flesh, Climb the uplands into wood Where the trees are vined in mesh, Where noon dreams with eyes of eve, Where the beck is flecked with gold, And the silver violets fold, Under leafage cool and lush, Where the moss is drenched with sleep, Where the music-memoried thrush Broods in dingles dusk and deep, Upward to the brow of hill, Where the wind soars cool with scent, And the twilights end in stars, Where upon the glimmering plain Fire-flies with the lights are blent From the huts and haunts of men, Jewels in the crown content.
Here is pleasure; drink it down. Here is sorrow; drain it dry. Tilt the goblet, don’t ask why. Here is madness; down it goes. Here’s a dagger and a kiss, Don’t ask what the reason is. Drink your liquor, no one knows; Drink it bravely like a lord. Do not roll a coward eye, Pain and pleasure is one sword Hacking out your destiny; Do not say, “It is not just.” That word won’t apply to life; You must drink because you must; Tilt the goblet, cease the strife. Here at last is something good, Just to warm your flagging blood. Don’t take breath— At the bottom of the cup Here is death: Drink it up.
We plough the field, And harrow the clod, And hurl the seed. Trust for trust: The germ yields, The wheat brairds, We gather the sheaf, Deed for deed: The stubble moulds, The chaff is cast, Dust for dust: The man is worn, His days are bound, But his labor returns, The child learns Round for round: The god is astir, Firm and free, Weaving his plan, Swelling the tree, Bracing the man: All is for good, Sweet or acerb, Laughter or pain, Freedom or curb: Follow your bent, Cry life is joy, Cry life is woe, The god is content, Impartial in power, Tranquil—and lo! Like the kernels in quern, Each in turn, Comes to his hour, Nor fast nor slow: It is well: even so.
When the ash-tree buds and the maples, And the osier wands are red, And the fairy sunlight dapples Dales where the leaves are spread, The pools are full of spring water, Winter is dead.
When the bloodroot blows in the tangle, And the lithe brooks run, And the violets gleam and spangle The glades in the golden sun, The showers are bright as the sunlight, April has won.