A TRUCE WITH DEAD SOULS
Now loose me, loose me, O ye deadWhose shadowy fingers clasp my own;I must fare on my way alone,Along a road ye may not tread,To hopes and fears ye have not known.Nor shall ye challenge my high truth,Nor deem of me that I forgetThat far goal where our eyes were set;Nor hold me false to that lost youthWhose solemn visions lead me yet.Ye quiet, ye untroubled dead,Count ye the stones that stay my feet?Or reckon ye the winds that beatFiercely upon my naked head?Weigh ye the fear my soul must meet?O loose me, for I journey far;O hold me not; ye cannot knowOn what rough trails my feet must goIn lands unlit of sun and star,Where still the swiftest feet are slow.I see what ye no more may see;I seek our vision’s noblest use;And he that keeps that quest with meThrough good and ill all patientlyIs Life. Ah! dead souls, grant the truce!