Lewis Morris (1833 – 1907)
Popular poet of the Anglo-Welsh school.
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Toil is the law of life and its best fruit.
Sound, jocund strains; on pipe and viol sound,
Young voices sing;
Wreathe every door with snow-white voices round,
For lo! 't is Spring!
Winter has passed with its sad funeral train,
And Love revives again.
The passionate love of Right, the burning hate of Wrong.
Call no faith false which e'er hath brought
Relief to any laden life,
Cessation to the pain of thought,
Refreshment mid the dust of strife.
The world still needs
Its champion as of old, and finds him still.
The love of the Right, tho' cast down, the hate of victorious Ill,
All are sparks from the central fire of a boundless beneficent will.
The wind that sighs before the dawn
Chases the gloom of night,
The curtains of the East are drawn,
And suddenly—'t is light.
Rest springs from strife and dissonant chords beget
Divinest harmonies.
The victories of Right
Are born of strife.
There were no Day were there no Night,
Nor, without dying, Life.
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