Among the Millet

by Archibald Lampman




Blind multitudes that jar confusedly
    At strife, earth’s children, will ye never rest
    From toils made hateful here, and dawns distressed
With ravelling self-engendered misery?
And will ye never know, till sleep shall see.                                 5
    Your graves, how dreadful and how dark indeed
    Are pride, self-will, and blind-voiced anger, greed,
And malice with its subtle cruelty?

How beautiful is gentleness, whose face
        Like April sunshine, or the summer rain,                           10
    Swells everywhere the buds of generous thought?
So easy, and so sweet it is; its grace
        Smoothes out so soon the tangled knots of pain.
Can ye not learn it? will ye not be taught?