The poem
FROM the cool and dark-lipped furrows Breathes a dim delight Through the woodland’s purple plumage To the diamond night. Aureoles of joy encircle Every blade of grass Where the dew-fed creatures silent And enraptured pass. And the restless ploughman pauses, Turns and, wondering, Deep beneath his rustic habit Finds himself a king; For a fiery moment looking With the eyes of God Over fields a slave at morning Bowed him to the sod. Blind and dense with revelation Every moment flies, And unto the Mighty Mother, Gay, eternal, rise All the hopes we hold, the gladness, Dreams of things to be. One of all thy generations, Mother, hails to thee. Hail, and hail, and hail for ever, Though I turn again From thy joy unto the human Vestiture of pain. I, thy child who went forth radiant In the golden prime, Find thee still the mother-hearted Through my night in time; Find in thee the old enchantment There behind the veil Where the gods, my brothers, linger. Hail, forever, hail!