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.
Your graves, how dreadful and
how dark indeed
Are pride, self-will, and blind-voiced
And malice with its subtle cruelty?
is gentleness, whose face
April sunshine, or the summer rain,
Swells everywhere the buds of
So easy, and so sweet it is; its grace
out so soon the tangled knots of pain.
Can ye not learn it? will ye not be taught?