A Spring Harvest/Sonnet

For works with similar titles, see Sonnet.
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SONNET

To-night the world is but a prison house,And kindly ways, and all the springing grassAre dungeon stones to him that may not passAmong them, save with anguish on his brows:And any wretched husbandman that ploughsThe upland acres in his habit spareIs king, to those in palaces of glassWho sit with grief and weariness for spouse.
O God, who madest first the world that weMight happy live, and praise its pleasantnessIn such wise as the angels never could,Wherefore are hearts, fashioned so wondrously,All spoiled and changed by human bitternessInto the likenesses of stone and wood?
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