STILL earth turns and pulses stir,
And each day hath its deed;
But if I be dead to her,
What is the life I lead ?
Cares the cuckoo for the wood,
When the red leaves are down ?
Stays the robin near the brood,
When they are fledged and flown?

Yea, we live ; the common air
To both its bounty brings.
Mockery ! Can the absent share
The half-forgotten things?

Barren comfort fancy doles
To him that truly sees ;
Sullen Earth can sever souls,
Far as the Pleiades.

Take thy toys, step-mother Earth, —
Take force of limb and brain;
All thy gifts are little worth,
Till her I find again.

Grass may spring and buds may stir, —
Why should mine eyes take heed ?
For if I be dead to her,
Then am I dead indeed.

Andrew Hedbrooke.