It was that hour when vernal Earth
And stormy March prepare
For the first day of April's tearful birth,
That I, o'ercome with care,
Rose with the twilight from a fireless hearth,
To take the fresh first air
And smile of morning's mirth.

Tired with old grief's self-pitying moan,
A mile I had not strayed,
Ere my dim path grew dark with double zone
Of men full fair arrayed,
While blent with sound of battle-trumpets blown,
Came, as through light comes shade,
Cries like an undertone.

Plumed with torn cloud March led the way
With spear-point keen for thrust,
And eager eyes, and harnessed form swathed grey
With drifts of wind-blown dust.
Round his bruised buckler, in bright letters, lay
This scroll which toilers trust; —
Non sine pulvere.

Wet as from weltering showers and seas,
April came after him.
He held a cup with saddest imageries
Engraven, and round the rim,
Worn with woe's lip, I spelt out words like these,
All sorrow-stained and dim; —
Non sine lacrymis.

These passed like regal spirits crowned,
Strong March and April fair,
And then a sphere-made music slow unwound
Its soul upon the air,
And soft as exhalations from the ground
Or spring-flowers here and there,
These words rose through the sound:

" Man needs these two for this world's moil,
Earth's drought and dew of spheres,
Grief's freshening rain to lay the dust of toil,
Toil's dust to dry the tears.
To all who rise as wrestlers in life's coil
Time brings with days and years
The wrestler's sand and oil. "

O Toil in vain, without surcease!
O Grief no hand may stay!
Think on these words when work or woes increase;
Man made of tears and clay,
Grows to full stature and God's perfect peace,
Non sine pulvere,
Non sine lacrymis.