O-Shichi, all my heart todayIs dreaming of your fate;And of your little house that stoodBeside the temple gate;Of its plum-garden hid awayBehind white paper doors;And of the young boy-priest who read too late with you love-lores.
O-Shichi dwelt in Yedo—whereA thousand wonders dwell.Gods, golden palaces and shrinesThat like a charm enspell.O-Shichi dwelt among them there,More wondrous, she, than all—A flower some forgetful god had from his hand let fall.
And all her days were as the dreamOn flowers in the sun.And all her ways were as the wavesThat by Shin-bashi run.And in her gaze there was the gleamOf stars that cannot waitToo long for love and so fare forth from heaven to find a mate.
O-Shichi dwelt so, till one nightWhen all the city slept,When not a paper lantern swung,When only fire-flies sweptSoft cipherings of spirit-lightAcross the temple's gloom—Sudden a cry was heard—the cry that should O-Shichi doom.
For following the cry came flame,A Chaya's roof a-blaze.And quickly was the street a streamOf stricken folk, whose gazeKnew well that when the morning cameTheir homes would be but smokeVanished upon the winds: now had O-Shichi's fate awoke.
And waited. For at morning priestsIn pity of her yearsAnd desolation led her backBehind the great god's spheres;The great god Buddha, who of beastsAnd men all mindful was.O Buddha, in thy very courts O-Shichi learned love's laws!
Love of the body and the soul,Not of Nirvana's state!Love that beyond itself can seeNo beauty wise or great.O-Shichi for a moon—a wholeMoon happy there beheldThe young boy-priest whose yearning e'er into his eyes upwelled.
So all too soon for her was foundElsewhere a kindly thatch.And all too soon O-Shichi heardBehind her close love's latch.They led her from the temple's groundInto untrysting days.And all too soon that happy moon was hid in sorrow's haze.
For now at dawn she rose to dressWith blooms some honored vase,Or to embroider or brew tea'sSweet ceremonial grace.Or she at dusk, in sick distress,Before the butsudan,Must to ancestral tablets pray—not to her Moto-San!
Not unto him, her love, who swaysHer breast, as moon the tide,Whose breath is incense—Ah, againTo see him softly glideBefore the grave god-idol's gazeOf inward ecstasy,To watch the great bell boom for him its mystic sutra-plea.
But weeks grew into weariness,And weariness to pain,And pain to lonely wildness, whichSet fire unto her brain.And, "I will see my love!" distressMade fair O-Shichi cry,"Tho for ten lives away from him I then must live and die."
Yet—no! She dared not go to him,To her he could not come.Then, sudden a thought her being sweptAnd struck her loud heart dumb.Till in her rose confusion dim,Fear fighting with Desire—Which to O-Shichi took the shape of Fudo, god of fire.
And Fudo won her: for that nightDid fond O-Shichi dareTo set aflame her father's house,Hoping again to shareThe temple with her acolyte,Her lover-priest, who, spentWith speechless passion for her face, in vain strove to repent.
But ah! what destiny can doIs not for folly's hand.The flames O-Shichi kindled wereFrom sea to Shiba fanned.And it was learned a love-sick girlHad charred a thousand homes.Then were the fury-smitten folk like to a sea that foams.
And so they seized her: but not inThe temple—O not thereHad she been led again by priestsIn pity—led to shareHer lover's eyes; no, but her sinBrought not one dear delightTo poor O-Shichi—who was now to look on her last rite.
For to the stake they bound her—fireThey lit—to be her fate....O-Shichi, have I dreamt it all?Your face, the temple gate,The fair boy-priest shut from desireIn Buddhahood to-be?Then let me dream and ever dream, O flower by Yedo's sea.
The fishermen bade their wives farewell,(The sun floated merry up the morning)They sang, to the rhythm of the low-swung swell,"O come, lads, scorningThe highlands high,There's no warningIn the blue south sky,There's no warning,O come, lads, free,We'll cross the harbor bar and put to sea!"The fisherwives prayed, the sails blew fast,(O home it is happy where there's hoping)They prayed—till the mist dimmed each dim mast:Then "We're not moping,"They sweetly sang,"Winds come gropingAnd clouds o'erhang,But we're not mopingTho left ashore;They'll come to us at dusk when day is o'er."But swifter than God the sea-quake came,(The fishers they were swallowed in its swirling)O swifter than men could name God's name.And white waves curlingHissed in to shore.The sea-birds whirlingSaw what, dashed hoar?The sea-birds whirlingSaw dead upborneThe fishers that went forth upon the morn.
The fishermen bade their wives farewell,(The sun floated merry up the morning)They sang, to the rhythm of the low-swung swell,"O come, lads, scorningThe highlands high,There's no warningIn the blue south sky,There's no warning,O come, lads, free,We'll cross the harbor bar and put to sea!"
The fisherwives prayed, the sails blew fast,(O home it is happy where there's hoping)They prayed—till the mist dimmed each dim mast:Then "We're not moping,"They sweetly sang,"Winds come gropingAnd clouds o'erhang,But we're not mopingTho left ashore;They'll come to us at dusk when day is o'er."
But swifter than God the sea-quake came,(The fishers they were swallowed in its swirling)O swifter than men could name God's name.And white waves curlingHissed in to shore.The sea-birds whirlingSaw what, dashed hoar?The sea-birds whirlingSaw dead upborneThe fishers that went forth upon the morn.
One cricket left, of summer's choir.One glow-worm, flashing life's last fire.One frog with leathern croakBeneath the oak,—And the pool stands leadenWhere November twilights deadenDay's unspent desire.One star in heaven—East or West.One wind—a gypsy seeking rest.One prayer within my heart—For all who partUpon Death's dark portal,With no hope of an immortalMorrow for life's quest.
One cricket left, of summer's choir.One glow-worm, flashing life's last fire.One frog with leathern croakBeneath the oak,—And the pool stands leadenWhere November twilights deadenDay's unspent desire.
One star in heaven—East or West.One wind—a gypsy seeking rest.One prayer within my heart—For all who partUpon Death's dark portal,With no hope of an immortalMorrow for life's quest.
Live! Live! Live!O send no day unto death,Undrained of the light, of the song, of the dew,Distilling within its breath.Drink deep of the sun, drink deep of the night,Drink deep of the tempest's brew,Of summer, of winter, of autumn, of spring—Whose flight can give what men never give!—Live!Live! Live! Live!And love life's every throb:The twinkling of shadows enmeshed in the trees,The passionate sunset's sob;The hurtling of wind, the heaving of hill,The moon-dizzy cloud, the seasThat sweep with infinite sweeping all shores,And thrill with a joy unfugitive!—Live!Live! Live! Live!Unloose from custom and care,From duty and sorrow and clinging designThy soul, through the silent Air.Go into the fields where Nature's aloneAnd drink from her mystic wineDivinity—till thou art even as She,Great all ills of the world to forgive!Live!
Live! Live! Live!O send no day unto death,Undrained of the light, of the song, of the dew,Distilling within its breath.Drink deep of the sun, drink deep of the night,Drink deep of the tempest's brew,Of summer, of winter, of autumn, of spring—Whose flight can give what men never give!—Live!
Live! Live! Live!And love life's every throb:The twinkling of shadows enmeshed in the trees,The passionate sunset's sob;The hurtling of wind, the heaving of hill,The moon-dizzy cloud, the seasThat sweep with infinite sweeping all shores,And thrill with a joy unfugitive!—Live!
Live! Live! Live!Unloose from custom and care,From duty and sorrow and clinging designThy soul, through the silent Air.Go into the fields where Nature's aloneAnd drink from her mystic wineDivinity—till thou art even as She,Great all ills of the world to forgive!Live!
All night the rainAnd the wind that beatDull wings of painOn the seas without.All night a VoiceThat broke in my brainAnd blew blind thoughts about.All night they whirledAs a haunted throngFrom some dim worldWhere there is no rest.All night the rain.And the wind that swirled,And the Infinite's lone quest.
All night the rainAnd the wind that beatDull wings of painOn the seas without.All night a VoiceThat broke in my brainAnd blew blind thoughts about.
All night they whirledAs a haunted throngFrom some dim worldWhere there is no rest.All night the rain.And the wind that swirled,And the Infinite's lone quest.
I heard the buds open their lips and whisper,Whisper,"Spring is here!"The robins listenedAnd sang it loud.The blue-birds cameIn a fluttering crowd.The cardinal preachedIt high and proud,Spring!And thro the warm earth their song went trilling,Trilling,"Wake! Arise!"The kingcups quicklyAssembled, strong.The bluets steptFrom the moss in throng.Like fairies tooCame the cress along.Spring!And love in your breast, my lass, awaking—Waking.Lovewas born!Your eyes were kindled,Your lips were warm.Wild beauties brokeFrom your face and form.And all my heartWas a heaven-storm,Was Spring!
I heard the buds open their lips and whisper,Whisper,"Spring is here!"The robins listenedAnd sang it loud.The blue-birds cameIn a fluttering crowd.The cardinal preachedIt high and proud,Spring!
And thro the warm earth their song went trilling,Trilling,"Wake! Arise!"The kingcups quicklyAssembled, strong.The bluets steptFrom the moss in throng.Like fairies tooCame the cress along.Spring!
And love in your breast, my lass, awaking—Waking.Lovewas born!Your eyes were kindled,Your lips were warm.Wild beauties brokeFrom your face and form.And all my heartWas a heaven-storm,Was Spring!
Tonight as I was riding on a waveOf triumph and of glory,A Question suddenly, as from the grave,Rose in me, culpatory."Whence come to you this joyance and this strength"It said, "this might of vision?This will that measures all things to its length,That cuts with calm decision?"This blood within your veins, that is as wineWhich Destiny's self blesses.Whence flows it, from what grape that is divine,Or trodden from what presses?"Do you so proud forget what hands have borneYou to the heights and crowned you?Would you behold what sackcloth has been wornThat laurels may surround you?"..."I would—O lips invisible! whose breath"—I answered—"so arraigns me;Whose voice is as a sound sent forth of Death,And like to Death entrains me."I would! For if the flesh of me and soulAre fibred with the ages,My triumph is of them and manifoldOf all life's mystic stages."So, forth they came—a vast ancestral line,Upon my vision teeming,All shapes whose natal semblance could affineThem to me, faintly gleaming.I knew them as I knew myself, and feltThe Day of each within me;And so began to speak, the while they dweltAbout—they who had been me."My Sires," I said, "think you I have forgotThe fervor of your living?How into me is moulded all you thought.Of getting or of giving?"Think you I do not feel my every dropOf blood is as an oceanIn which are surging and will never stopAll things your hope gave motion?"My senses, that are swift to take delightAnd shrine it in their being,Are they not born of all your faith, and brightWith all your bliss of seeing?"And my full heart within whose fount I hearYour voices that are vanished,Can it forget its gratitude or fearFoes that you braved and banished?"No. But the blindly striving years that ledYou to the Rose's beauty,Or taught you out of Ill to disembedThe golden veins of Duty;"The wasting and incalculable wantsThat in you quailed or quivered;The longing that lit stars no dark now daunts—I know, who stand delivered!"To you then from whose throng the centuriesLong dead slip now their shrouding,Who from oblivion's profunditiesRise up, and round are crowding,"I say, Immortal do I hold your will!Its gathered might ascendingIs sacred with the unconquerable mightOf God—who sees its ending;"Of God—on whose strong Vine, Heredity,Rooted in Voids primeval,The world climbs ever to some great To-BeOf passion or reprieval."I said—and on night's infinite beheldSilence alone beside me;And majesty of greater meanings welledInto my soul, to guide me.
Tonight as I was riding on a waveOf triumph and of glory,A Question suddenly, as from the grave,Rose in me, culpatory.
"Whence come to you this joyance and this strength"It said, "this might of vision?This will that measures all things to its length,That cuts with calm decision?
"This blood within your veins, that is as wineWhich Destiny's self blesses.Whence flows it, from what grape that is divine,Or trodden from what presses?
"Do you so proud forget what hands have borneYou to the heights and crowned you?Would you behold what sackcloth has been wornThat laurels may surround you?"...
"I would—O lips invisible! whose breath"—I answered—"so arraigns me;Whose voice is as a sound sent forth of Death,And like to Death entrains me.
"I would! For if the flesh of me and soulAre fibred with the ages,My triumph is of them and manifoldOf all life's mystic stages."
So, forth they came—a vast ancestral line,Upon my vision teeming,All shapes whose natal semblance could affineThem to me, faintly gleaming.
I knew them as I knew myself, and feltThe Day of each within me;And so began to speak, the while they dweltAbout—they who had been me.
"My Sires," I said, "think you I have forgotThe fervor of your living?How into me is moulded all you thought.Of getting or of giving?
"Think you I do not feel my every dropOf blood is as an oceanIn which are surging and will never stopAll things your hope gave motion?
"My senses, that are swift to take delightAnd shrine it in their being,Are they not born of all your faith, and brightWith all your bliss of seeing?
"And my full heart within whose fount I hearYour voices that are vanished,Can it forget its gratitude or fearFoes that you braved and banished?
"No. But the blindly striving years that ledYou to the Rose's beauty,Or taught you out of Ill to disembedThe golden veins of Duty;
"The wasting and incalculable wantsThat in you quailed or quivered;The longing that lit stars no dark now daunts—I know, who stand delivered!
"To you then from whose throng the centuriesLong dead slip now their shrouding,Who from oblivion's profunditiesRise up, and round are crowding,
"I say, Immortal do I hold your will!Its gathered might ascendingIs sacred with the unconquerable mightOf God—who sees its ending;
"Of God—on whose strong Vine, Heredity,Rooted in Voids primeval,The world climbs ever to some great To-BeOf passion or reprieval."
I said—and on night's infinite beheldSilence alone beside me;And majesty of greater meanings welledInto my soul, to guide me.
I could not sleep. The wind poured in my earImmortal names—Lear, Hamlet, Hal, Macbeth,And thro the night I heard the rushing breathOf ghost and witch and fool go whirling by.I followed them, under the phantom sphereOf the pale moon, along the Avon's nearAnd nimbused flowing, followed to his bier—Who had evoked them first with mighty eye.And as I gazed upon the peaceful spireThat points above earth's most immortal dust,I could have asked God for His starry LyreOut of the skies to play my praise upon.I could have shouted, as, O Wind, thou must,"Here lies Humanity: kneel, and pass on."
I could not sleep. The wind poured in my earImmortal names—Lear, Hamlet, Hal, Macbeth,And thro the night I heard the rushing breathOf ghost and witch and fool go whirling by.I followed them, under the phantom sphereOf the pale moon, along the Avon's nearAnd nimbused flowing, followed to his bier—Who had evoked them first with mighty eye.And as I gazed upon the peaceful spireThat points above earth's most immortal dust,I could have asked God for His starry LyreOut of the skies to play my praise upon.I could have shouted, as, O Wind, thou must,"Here lies Humanity: kneel, and pass on."
Up under the roof, in cold or heat,Far up, aloof from the city street,She sat all dayAnd painted grayCold idols, scarcely human.And if she thought of ease and rest,Of love that spells God's name the best,Her few friends heard but one request—"Pray for a tired little woman."She sat from dawn till weary dusk.Her hands plied on—with but a huskOf bread to breakAnd for Christ's sakeTo bless: wasHenot human?Then when the light would leave her brushShe'd sit there still, in the dim hush,And say aloud, lest tears should rush—"Pray for a tired little woman."They found her so—one morning whenA knock brought no sweet welcome kenOf her still faceAnd cloistral graceAnd brow so bravely human.They found her by the window bar,Her eyes fixed where had been some star.O you that rest, where'er you are,Pray for the tired little woman.
Up under the roof, in cold or heat,Far up, aloof from the city street,She sat all dayAnd painted grayCold idols, scarcely human.And if she thought of ease and rest,Of love that spells God's name the best,Her few friends heard but one request—"Pray for a tired little woman."
She sat from dawn till weary dusk.Her hands plied on—with but a huskOf bread to breakAnd for Christ's sakeTo bless: wasHenot human?Then when the light would leave her brushShe'd sit there still, in the dim hush,And say aloud, lest tears should rush—"Pray for a tired little woman."
They found her so—one morning whenA knock brought no sweet welcome kenOf her still faceAnd cloistral graceAnd brow so bravely human.They found her by the window bar,Her eyes fixed where had been some star.O you that rest, where'er you are,Pray for the tired little woman.
"She shall be sportive as the fawnThat wild with glee across the lawnOr up the mountain springs;"
I'm Wanda bornOf the mirthful mornSo I heard the red-buds whisperTo the forest beech,Tho I know that eachIs but a gossipy lisper.I taunt the brookWith his hair outshookO'er the weir so cool and mossy,And mock the crowAs he peers belowWith a caw that's vain and saucy.Where the wahoo redsAnd the sumac spreadsTall plumes o'er the purple privet,I beg a kissOf the wind, tho I wisRight well he never will give it.I hide in the nookAnd sunbeams lookFor me everywhere, like fairies.Then out I glideBy the gray deer's side—Ha, ha, but he never tarries!Then I fright the hareFrom his turfy lairAnd after him send a volleyOf song that stopsHim under the copseIn wonderment at my folly.And Autumn cries"Be sad!" or sighsThro her nun lips palely pouting.But then I leapTo the woods and keepIt wild with gleeing and shouting.And when the sunHas almost spunA path to his far Golconda,I climb the hillAnd listen, still,While he calls me—"Wanda! Wanda!"And then I goTo the valley—Oh,My dreams are sweeter than dreaming!All night I playOver lands of Fay,In delight that seems not seeming.
I'm Wanda bornOf the mirthful mornSo I heard the red-buds whisperTo the forest beech,Tho I know that eachIs but a gossipy lisper.
I taunt the brookWith his hair outshookO'er the weir so cool and mossy,And mock the crowAs he peers belowWith a caw that's vain and saucy.
Where the wahoo redsAnd the sumac spreadsTall plumes o'er the purple privet,I beg a kissOf the wind, tho I wisRight well he never will give it.
I hide in the nookAnd sunbeams lookFor me everywhere, like fairies.Then out I glideBy the gray deer's side—Ha, ha, but he never tarries!
Then I fright the hareFrom his turfy lairAnd after him send a volleyOf song that stopsHim under the copseIn wonderment at my folly.
And Autumn cries"Be sad!" or sighsThro her nun lips palely pouting.But then I leapTo the woods and keepIt wild with gleeing and shouting.
And when the sunHas almost spunA path to his far Golconda,I climb the hillAnd listen, still,While he calls me—"Wanda! Wanda!"
And then I goTo the valley—Oh,My dreams are sweeter than dreaming!All night I playOver lands of Fay,In delight that seems not seeming.
All day long in the spindrift swinging,Bird of the sea! bird of the sea!How I would that I had thy winging—How I envy thee!How I would that I had thy spirit,So to careen, joyous to cry,Over the storm and never fear it!Into the night that hovers near it!Calm on a reeling sky!All day long, and the night, unresting!Ah! I believe thy every breathMeans that Life's Best comes ever breastingPeril and pain and death!
All day long in the spindrift swinging,Bird of the sea! bird of the sea!How I would that I had thy winging—How I envy thee!
How I would that I had thy spirit,So to careen, joyous to cry,Over the storm and never fear it!Into the night that hovers near it!Calm on a reeling sky!
All day long, and the night, unresting!Ah! I believe thy every breathMeans that Life's Best comes ever breastingPeril and pain and death!
Life flung to Art this voice, of mercy bare."Fool, to my human earth come you, so free,To wreathe with phantom immortalityWhoever climbs with passionate lone careThat shifting, feverous and shadow stairTo Beauty—which is vainer than the seaOn furious thirst, or than a mote to MeWho fill yon infinite great Everywhere?Let them alone—my children! they are bornTo mart and soil and saving commerce o'erWind, wave and many-fruited continents.And you can feed them but of crumbs and scorn,And futile glory when they are no more.Within my hand alone is recompense!"
Life flung to Art this voice, of mercy bare."Fool, to my human earth come you, so free,To wreathe with phantom immortalityWhoever climbs with passionate lone careThat shifting, feverous and shadow stairTo Beauty—which is vainer than the seaOn furious thirst, or than a mote to MeWho fill yon infinite great Everywhere?Let them alone—my children! they are bornTo mart and soil and saving commerce o'erWind, wave and many-fruited continents.And you can feed them but of crumbs and scorn,And futile glory when they are no more.Within my hand alone is recompense!"
But Art made fierce reply, "Anathema,On you who fill flesh but the spirit scorn.Who give it to the unrequiting lawOf your brute soullessness and heart unbornTo aught than barter in your low bazaar—Though Beauty die for it from star to star.You are the god of Judas and those whoBetrayed Him unto nail and thorn and sword!Of that relentless worm-bit Florence hordeWho drove lone Dante from them till he grewSo great in death they begged his bones to strewTheir pride and wealth and useless praise upon.Anathema! I cry; and will, till noneOf all earth's children still shall worship you."
But Art made fierce reply, "Anathema,On you who fill flesh but the spirit scorn.Who give it to the unrequiting lawOf your brute soullessness and heart unbornTo aught than barter in your low bazaar—Though Beauty die for it from star to star.You are the god of Judas and those whoBetrayed Him unto nail and thorn and sword!Of that relentless worm-bit Florence hordeWho drove lone Dante from them till he grewSo great in death they begged his bones to strewTheir pride and wealth and useless praise upon.Anathema! I cry; and will, till noneOf all earth's children still shall worship you."
A thousand yearsIn a mummy's handA seed may lie.Then, planted, springInto life againUnder sun and sky.A thousand daysIn a soul's dark waysA word may wait.But a touch at lengthMay arouse its strengthAnd the word proves—Fate.
A thousand yearsIn a mummy's handA seed may lie.Then, planted, springInto life againUnder sun and sky.
A thousand daysIn a soul's dark waysA word may wait.But a touch at lengthMay arouse its strengthAnd the word proves—Fate.
World-sorrow have I known, like unto God.Nothing there is of pain but echoes downMy breast with wan reverberance and pang,And peaceless passes thro it evermore.The struck bird's cry wounds my all-feeling bloodTo pity that will not be solacèd,Sounds on me like far pleas of the unbornAgainst predestined days. A withering budBrews barrenness thro all the verdancyOf Spring. And in a tear—tho anguish shape itOn the warm lid of joy—earth's Tragedy,Whose curtain falls not for it has no end,Comes mirrored to me as infinite Ill.How shall I 'scape it! How, O how escapeThe trooping of prayers lost upon the void,Of hopes misborn and fading not to rest!How shall I burn not with all vain-lit lovesThat alway billow thro me their slow fireFed by the agony of new-broke hearts!How loose me from too long commiseryFor those whom unrequiting Time has givenTo the altar of the aching world's unrest!A grief immitigable to the HandWhose mystery of returning sun can healWinter away, seems here; a grief but calmOf immortality can make forgiven!For even as all the gleaming girth of starsThat wreathe the Illimitable beauteouslyQuench not the vast of night, so do all joysLife strews along her passing to the gravePrevail not o'er the shadow of sure death.And O Humanity, long-suffering HarpOf passion-strings unnumbered, shall His skillFlung thus forever o'er thy fragile restBuild but these harmonies that seem sometimesUnworth the misery of the trampled worm?Would, would I were not vibrant with all strainsHe strikes from thee, or else more perfect tuned!World-sorrow have I known, like unto God.
World-sorrow have I known, like unto God.Nothing there is of pain but echoes downMy breast with wan reverberance and pang,And peaceless passes thro it evermore.The struck bird's cry wounds my all-feeling bloodTo pity that will not be solacèd,Sounds on me like far pleas of the unbornAgainst predestined days. A withering budBrews barrenness thro all the verdancyOf Spring. And in a tear—tho anguish shape itOn the warm lid of joy—earth's Tragedy,Whose curtain falls not for it has no end,Comes mirrored to me as infinite Ill.
How shall I 'scape it! How, O how escapeThe trooping of prayers lost upon the void,Of hopes misborn and fading not to rest!How shall I burn not with all vain-lit lovesThat alway billow thro me their slow fireFed by the agony of new-broke hearts!How loose me from too long commiseryFor those whom unrequiting Time has givenTo the altar of the aching world's unrest!A grief immitigable to the HandWhose mystery of returning sun can healWinter away, seems here; a grief but calmOf immortality can make forgiven!
For even as all the gleaming girth of starsThat wreathe the Illimitable beauteouslyQuench not the vast of night, so do all joysLife strews along her passing to the gravePrevail not o'er the shadow of sure death.And O Humanity, long-suffering HarpOf passion-strings unnumbered, shall His skillFlung thus forever o'er thy fragile restBuild but these harmonies that seem sometimesUnworth the misery of the trampled worm?Would, would I were not vibrant with all strainsHe strikes from thee, or else more perfect tuned!World-sorrow have I known, like unto God.
Let me lie here—I care not for the distant hills today,And the blue sphereOf far infinity that draws awayAll to its deep,Would only sweepSoothing the farther from me with its sway.Let me lie here—Gazing with vacant sadness on this weed.The cricket nearWill utter all my heart can bear to heed.Another voiceWould swell the noiseAnd surge, that ever sound in human need.Let me lie here:For now, so long my wasted soul has tossedOn the wide MereOf Mystery Hope's wing alone has crossed,I ask no moreThan to restoreTo simple things the wonder they have lost.
Let me lie here—I care not for the distant hills today,And the blue sphereOf far infinity that draws awayAll to its deep,Would only sweepSoothing the farther from me with its sway.
Let me lie here—Gazing with vacant sadness on this weed.The cricket nearWill utter all my heart can bear to heed.Another voiceWould swell the noiseAnd surge, that ever sound in human need.
Let me lie here:For now, so long my wasted soul has tossedOn the wide MereOf Mystery Hope's wing alone has crossed,I ask no moreThan to restoreTo simple things the wonder they have lost.
My own, among the unnumbered yearsGod casts from that full Garner whichIs His Eternity one shallBe ours, beyond all fate or fears.For, ranging lone amid its thorns.Seeking the buds that grew between,We met and made its morning seemNew in a world grown old to morns.And so tho He may scatter stillMany a fadeless other round,In none, for us shall there be foundThat first awakening and thrill.But as in peace we tread Love's Land,To which it gave us right of birth,We shall remember that New EarthCame when we first walked hand in hand.
My own, among the unnumbered yearsGod casts from that full Garner whichIs His Eternity one shallBe ours, beyond all fate or fears.
For, ranging lone amid its thorns.Seeking the buds that grew between,We met and made its morning seemNew in a world grown old to morns.
And so tho He may scatter stillMany a fadeless other round,In none, for us shall there be foundThat first awakening and thrill.
But as in peace we tread Love's Land,To which it gave us right of birth,We shall remember that New EarthCame when we first walked hand in hand.
White-caps hurry to meet the shoreAn hundred fathoms down.Gray sails are shimmering on the windFar out from Lynmouth town.High crags above us are whispering keen,The heather and the lingLaugh to the sky as driven byThe wild gulls cry or cling.And, where the far sun like a godScatters the mist, lies Shore.Is it Romance's magic realmSpring reigns forever o'er?Romance that our morning hearts could seeAcross the darkest foam?Then do we know it well, my love,Because it is our Home.
White-caps hurry to meet the shoreAn hundred fathoms down.Gray sails are shimmering on the windFar out from Lynmouth town.
High crags above us are whispering keen,The heather and the lingLaugh to the sky as driven byThe wild gulls cry or cling.
And, where the far sun like a godScatters the mist, lies Shore.Is it Romance's magic realmSpring reigns forever o'er?
Romance that our morning hearts could seeAcross the darkest foam?Then do we know it well, my love,Because it is our Home.
Who stood upon that schooner's driven deckLast night as reefed and shuddering she hoveInto the twilight and all desperate droveFrom wave to angrier wave that sought her wreck?Who labored at her helm and watched the windStagger the sea with all his stunning might,Until in dimness dwindling from our sightShe vanished in the wrack that rode behind?We know not, you and I, but our two soulsThat followed as storm-petrels o'er the wavesFelt all the might of Him who sinks or saves,And all the pity of earth's unreached goals.Felt all—then swift returning to our loveDwelt in its peace, uplifted safe above.
Who stood upon that schooner's driven deckLast night as reefed and shuddering she hoveInto the twilight and all desperate droveFrom wave to angrier wave that sought her wreck?Who labored at her helm and watched the windStagger the sea with all his stunning might,Until in dimness dwindling from our sightShe vanished in the wrack that rode behind?We know not, you and I, but our two soulsThat followed as storm-petrels o'er the wavesFelt all the might of Him who sinks or saves,And all the pity of earth's unreached goals.Felt all—then swift returning to our loveDwelt in its peace, uplifted safe above.
To sit by a silent stream,Watching water-lilies dream:While breezes winnowThe floating seeds,And the aery minnowWeaves his wavy web among the reeds.Where a fallen sycamoreWhitely arches a pathway o'er,And shadows darkleThe lambent cool,As, softly a-sparkle.Sunbeams arrow lightnings thro the pool.Where the everlasting's breathOdors mysteries of death.Where iron-weeds, rustedLeaf and pod,By insects dusted,Rustle—then in autumn sadness nod.To sit ... till every senseLose thought of whither and whence;Till earth and heavenAnd faith and fateNo longer leavenLife, with hope or fear, or love or hate.
To sit by a silent stream,Watching water-lilies dream:While breezes winnowThe floating seeds,And the aery minnowWeaves his wavy web among the reeds.
Where a fallen sycamoreWhitely arches a pathway o'er,And shadows darkleThe lambent cool,As, softly a-sparkle.Sunbeams arrow lightnings thro the pool.
Where the everlasting's breathOdors mysteries of death.Where iron-weeds, rustedLeaf and pod,By insects dusted,Rustle—then in autumn sadness nod.
To sit ... till every senseLose thought of whither and whence;Till earth and heavenAnd faith and fateNo longer leavenLife, with hope or fear, or love or hate.
Grave brother of the burning sands,Whose eyes enshrine foreverThe desert's soul, are you not wornOf gazing outward to dim strandsOf stars that weary never?Infinity no answer hasFor Time's untold distresses.Its deepest maze of mysteryIs but Illusion built up asThe blind build skies—with guesses.Nor has Eternity a placeOn any starry summit.The winds of Death are wide as Life,And leave no world untouched—but race,And soon with Night benumb it.And Karma is the law of soulAnd star—yea, of all Being.And from it but one way there is.Retreat into that trancèd Whole—Which is not Sight nor Seeing;Which is not Mind nor Mindlessness,Nor Deed nor driven Doer,Nor Want nor Wasting of Desire;But only that which won can bless;And of all else is pure.Turn then your eyes from the far trackOf worlds, and gazing inward,O brother, fare where Life has come,Yea, into its far Whence fare back.All other ways are sinward.
Grave brother of the burning sands,Whose eyes enshrine foreverThe desert's soul, are you not wornOf gazing outward to dim strandsOf stars that weary never?
Infinity no answer hasFor Time's untold distresses.Its deepest maze of mysteryIs but Illusion built up asThe blind build skies—with guesses.
Nor has Eternity a placeOn any starry summit.The winds of Death are wide as Life,And leave no world untouched—but race,And soon with Night benumb it.
And Karma is the law of soulAnd star—yea, of all Being.And from it but one way there is.Retreat into that trancèd Whole—Which is not Sight nor Seeing;
Which is not Mind nor Mindlessness,Nor Deed nor driven Doer,Nor Want nor Wasting of Desire;But only that which won can bless;And of all else is pure.
Turn then your eyes from the far trackOf worlds, and gazing inward,O brother, fare where Life has come,Yea, into its far Whence fare back.All other ways are sinward.