The cry of a child by the roadway， the creak of a lumbering cart，
The heavy steps of the ploughman， splashing the wintry mould，
Are wronging your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.
The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be told；
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart，
With the earth and the sky and the water， re-made， like a casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart