HUNTED by friends who think that life is play,
Shaken by holy loves, more feared than foes,
By beauty’s amber cup, that overflows,
And pride of place, that leads me more astray:--
Here I renew my vows, and this chief vow--
To seek each year this shrine of deathless power,
Keeping my springtime cornland thoughts in flower,
While labor-gnarled grey Christians round me bow.
Arm me against great towns, strong spirits old!
St. Francis keep me road-worn, music-fed.
Help me to look upon the poor-house bed
As a most fitting death, more dear than gold.
Help me to seek the sunburned groups afield,
The iron folk, the pioneers free-born.
Make me to voice the tall men in the corn.
Let boyhood’s wildflower days a bright fruit yield.
Scourge me, a slave that brings unhallowed praise
To you, stern Virgin in this church so sweet
If I desert the ways wherein my feet
Were set by Heaven, in prenatal days.