I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.

To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.

Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.