Sonnet Xxxv. Twere Better Far From Noon To Eventide Poem by Henry Alford

'Twere better far from noon to eventide
To sit and feel sad care, and fence the while
The patient spirit for unwonted toil,
Than in the calm for ever to abide;
'Twere better far to climb the mountain--side
Through perilous buffeting of wind and steep
Than in the valley--nook, charmed into sleep,
All the fair blossoms of young life to hide.
So let me labour: for 'tis labour--worth
To feel the fruits of my seed--time of tears
Shedding their fragrance over half this earth;
No mother rues the sharpest pangs of birth,
So she may see the offspring of her fears
Standing in high estate and manly years.