The arching earth has no more worth

Than this, to love, to wed,

To serve the hearth, to bring to birth,

To win your children's bread.

 v 

v

The bee pills nothing for himself,

Loading with gold his thigh,

The martin twittering, at his shelf,

Glancing from the sky

Not greedy ease make slaves of these;

Nor yet endures the cow,

Her failing knees and agonies

For price of joy I vow.

[Pg 10]

A call above the spell of love,

A crying and a need

To make two one, the fruit whereof

To nurture and to feed;

To brood, to hoard, to spend as rain

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