The Beneficent Garland

To hang about the knees of the gods,

The first-fruits of the awful odds

‘Gainst which man till’d the soil.

What are then these first fruits, I pray

Swelling at night, to ripen by day

Such sorrows of their toil?

Fruits of this mystery are they born

The baby & the ear of corn,

Hunger & drawing breath

The laboured seasons of the year

The rise & fall of love & fear

All leaping into death.

See the angel carrying the swag

Of blossoms culled with sweat & fag

He is man’s guardian.

But what use have the gods for such flowers

Of earth, up in their sheeny bowers

On Heaven’s meridian?

Their smell is the joy of His nostril

Breathing the essence of the Gospel

Out in a narrow flame

For the gods supporting the million

Miles of darkness round His pavilion

Are lighted by that same.