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.