Blind multitudes that jar confusedly br At strife, earth's children, will ye never rest br From toils made hateful here, and dawns distressed br With ravelling self-engendered misery? br And will ye never know, till sleep shall see. br Your graves, how dreadful and how dark indeed br Are pride, self-will, and blind-voiced anger, greed, br And malice with its subtle cruelty? br br How beautiful is gentleness, whose face br Like April sunshine, or the summer rain, br Swells everywhere the buds of generous thought? br So easy, and so sweet it is; its grace br Smoothes out so soon the tangled knots of pain.