Alastor

The islands about which this legend is told are known as Jezírat Darzé and Jezírat Samhé, east of Cape Gardafui—one high and the other low.

Alastor’Tis said that a noble youth of oldWas to his native village lost,And to his home, and agèd sire;For he had wander’d (it is told)Where, pinnacled in eternal frost,Apollo leads his awful Choir.Awful, for nought of human warmsThe agony of their song sublime,Which like the breath of ice is givenAscending in vapour from all forms,Where gods in clear alternate chimeReveal their mystery-thoughts to Heaven.Nor in those regions of windless coldIs fiery the Sun, tho’ fierce in light;But frozen-pale the numbèd MoonWanders along the ridges that foldEnormous Peaks, what time the NightRivals with all her stars the Noon.For there, not dimly as here, the Stars,But globèd and azure and crimson tinct,Climb up the windless wastes of snow,Gold-footed, or thro’ the long-drawn barsOf mountain mist, with eyes unblink’dAnd scorn, gaze down on the World below;Or high on the topmost peak and endOf ranges stand with sudden blaze,Like Angels born in spontaneous birth;Or wrap themselves in flame and descendBetween black foreheads of rock in haze,Slowly, like grievèd gods to earth.

Alastor

’Tis said that a noble youth of old

Was to his native village lost,

And to his home, and agèd sire;

For he had wander’d (it is told)

Where, pinnacled in eternal frost,

Apollo leads his awful Choir.

Awful, for nought of human warmsThe agony of their song sublime,Which like the breath of ice is givenAscending in vapour from all forms,Where gods in clear alternate chimeReveal their mystery-thoughts to Heaven.

Awful, for nought of human warms

The agony of their song sublime,

Which like the breath of ice is given

Ascending in vapour from all forms,

Where gods in clear alternate chime

Reveal their mystery-thoughts to Heaven.

Nor in those regions of windless coldIs fiery the Sun, tho’ fierce in light;But frozen-pale the numbèd MoonWanders along the ridges that foldEnormous Peaks, what time the NightRivals with all her stars the Noon.

Nor in those regions of windless cold

Is fiery the Sun, tho’ fierce in light;

But frozen-pale the numbèd Moon

Wanders along the ridges that fold

Enormous Peaks, what time the Night

Rivals with all her stars the Noon.

For there, not dimly as here, the Stars,But globèd and azure and crimson tinct,Climb up the windless wastes of snow,Gold-footed, or thro’ the long-drawn barsOf mountain mist, with eyes unblink’dAnd scorn, gaze down on the World below;

For there, not dimly as here, the Stars,

But globèd and azure and crimson tinct,

Climb up the windless wastes of snow,

Gold-footed, or thro’ the long-drawn bars

Of mountain mist, with eyes unblink’d

And scorn, gaze down on the World below;

Or high on the topmost peak and endOf ranges stand with sudden blaze,Like Angels born in spontaneous birth;Or wrap themselves in flame and descendBetween black foreheads of rock in haze,Slowly, like grievèd gods to earth.

Or high on the topmost peak and end

Of ranges stand with sudden blaze,

Like Angels born in spontaneous birth;

Or wrap themselves in flame and descend

Between black foreheads of rock in haze,

Slowly, like grievèd gods to earth.

And there for ever the patient WindRakes up the crystals of dry snow,And mourns for ever her work undone;And there for ever, like Titans blind,Their countenance lifting to Heaven’s glow,The sightless Mountains yearn for the Sun.There nightly the numbèd eagle quells(Full-feather’d to his feet of horn)His swooning eye, his eyrie won,And slumbers, frozen by frosty spellsFast to the pinnacle; but at MornUnfetter’d leaps toward the Sun.. . . . .He heard, he saw. Not to the airDared breathe a breath; but with his sightWreak’d on Immortals mortal wrong,And dared to see them as they were—The black Peaks blacken’d in their light,The white Stars flashing with their song.So fled. But when revealing MornShow’d him, descended, giant-grown,Men ant-like, petty, mean and weak,He rush’d, returning. Then in scornTh’ Immortals smote him to a StoneThat aches for ever on the Peak.1888.

And there for ever the patient Wind

Rakes up the crystals of dry snow,

And mourns for ever her work undone;

And there for ever, like Titans blind,

Their countenance lifting to Heaven’s glow,

The sightless Mountains yearn for the Sun.

There nightly the numbèd eagle quells(Full-feather’d to his feet of horn)His swooning eye, his eyrie won,And slumbers, frozen by frosty spellsFast to the pinnacle; but at MornUnfetter’d leaps toward the Sun.. . . . .

There nightly the numbèd eagle quells

(Full-feather’d to his feet of horn)

His swooning eye, his eyrie won,

And slumbers, frozen by frosty spells

Fast to the pinnacle; but at Morn

Unfetter’d leaps toward the Sun.

. . . . .

He heard, he saw. Not to the airDared breathe a breath; but with his sightWreak’d on Immortals mortal wrong,And dared to see them as they were—The black Peaks blacken’d in their light,The white Stars flashing with their song.

He heard, he saw. Not to the air

Dared breathe a breath; but with his sight

Wreak’d on Immortals mortal wrong,

And dared to see them as they were—

The black Peaks blacken’d in their light,

The white Stars flashing with their song.

So fled. But when revealing MornShow’d him, descended, giant-grown,Men ant-like, petty, mean and weak,He rush’d, returning. Then in scornTh’ Immortals smote him to a StoneThat aches for ever on the Peak.

So fled. But when revealing Morn

Show’d him, descended, giant-grown,

Men ant-like, petty, mean and weak,

He rush’d, returning. Then in scorn

Th’ Immortals smote him to a Stone

That aches for ever on the Peak.

1888.

LABOURS

SonnetHigh Muse, who first, where to my opening sight,New-born, the loftiest summits of the world,Silent, with brows of ice and robes unfurl’dOf motionless thunder, shone above the night,Didst touch my infant eyes and fill with lightOf snow, and sleepless stars, and torrents hurl’d,And fragrant pines of morning mist-empearl’d,And music of great things and their delight:Revisit me; resume my soul; inspireWith force and cold out of the north—not givenTo sickly dwellers in these southern spots,Where all day long the great Sun rolls his fireIntol’rable in the dusty march of heaven,And the heart shrivels and the spirit rots.Madras, 1890.

Sonnet

High Muse, who first, where to my opening sight,

New-born, the loftiest summits of the world,

Silent, with brows of ice and robes unfurl’d

Of motionless thunder, shone above the night,

Didst touch my infant eyes and fill with light

Of snow, and sleepless stars, and torrents hurl’d,

And fragrant pines of morning mist-empearl’d,

And music of great things and their delight:

Revisit me; resume my soul; inspire

With force and cold out of the north—not given

To sickly dwellers in these southern spots,

Where all day long the great Sun rolls his fire

Intol’rable in the dusty march of heaven,

And the heart shrivels and the spirit rots.

Madras, 1890.

VisionA valley of far-fallen rocks,Like bones of mouldering mountains, spread,And ended by the barren blocksOf mountains doom’d or dead:No rivage there with green recessMade music in that wilderness.Despairing fell the sore-spent Sun,And cried, ‘I die,’ and sank in fire;Like conquering Death, the Night came onAnd ran from spire to spire;And swollen-pale ascended soon,Like Death in Life, the leprous Moon.On windy ledges lined with light,Between the still Stars sparsely strewn,Two Spirits grew from out the NightBeneath the mistless Moon,And held deep parley, making thoughtWith words sententious half distraught.One full-robed; in his hand a book;His lips, that labour’d for the word,Scarce moved in utterance; and his lookSought, not his face who heard,But that Sad Star that sobs alwayUpon the breast of dying Day.One, weary, with two-handed stressLeant on his shoulder-touching spearHis beard blown o’er the hairinessOf his great breast; and clearHis eyes shot speculation outTo catch the truth or quell the doubt.1. ‘The dreams of Hope, of blue-eyed Hope,Melt after morn and die in day;Love’s golden dew-globe, lit aslope,Dulls with a downward ray;Canst thou with all thy thought renewThe flying dreams or drying dew?’2. ‘Not I creator. Hour by hourI labour without stress or strifeTo gain more knowledge, greater power,A nobler, longer life.By thought alone we take our standAbove the world and win command.’1. ‘Know, Knowledge doth but clip our wings,And worldly Wisdom weaken worth,To make us lords of little things,And worm-gods of the earth.Were earth made Heaven by human wit,Some wild star yet might shatter it.’2. ‘The wings of Fancy are but frail,And Virtue’s without Wisdom weak;Better than Falsehood’s flowery vale,The Truth, however bleak.Tho’ she may bless not nor redeem,The Truth is true, and reigns supreme.’1. ‘Not all, but few, can plead and proveAnd crown their brows with Truth and pass;Their little labours cannot moveThe mountain’s mighty mass.To man in vain the Truth appeals,Or Heav’n ordains, or Art reveals.’2. ‘So self-consuming thought. But seeThe standards of Advance unfurl’d;The buds are breaking on the lea,And Spring strikes thro’ the world.Tho’ we may never reach the Peak,God gave this great commandment, Seek.’. . . . .The ponderous bolts of Night were drawn;The pale Day peer’d thro’ cloudy bars;The Wind awoke; the sword of DawnFlasht thro’ the flying Stars;The new-born Sun-Star smote the Gloom:The Desert burst in endless Bloom.Bangalore, 1890.

Vision

A valley of far-fallen rocks,

Like bones of mouldering mountains, spread,

And ended by the barren blocks

Of mountains doom’d or dead:

No rivage there with green recess

Made music in that wilderness.

Despairing fell the sore-spent Sun,And cried, ‘I die,’ and sank in fire;Like conquering Death, the Night came onAnd ran from spire to spire;And swollen-pale ascended soon,Like Death in Life, the leprous Moon.

Despairing fell the sore-spent Sun,

And cried, ‘I die,’ and sank in fire;

Like conquering Death, the Night came on

And ran from spire to spire;

And swollen-pale ascended soon,

Like Death in Life, the leprous Moon.

On windy ledges lined with light,Between the still Stars sparsely strewn,Two Spirits grew from out the NightBeneath the mistless Moon,And held deep parley, making thoughtWith words sententious half distraught.

On windy ledges lined with light,

Between the still Stars sparsely strewn,

Two Spirits grew from out the Night

Beneath the mistless Moon,

And held deep parley, making thought

With words sententious half distraught.

One full-robed; in his hand a book;His lips, that labour’d for the word,Scarce moved in utterance; and his lookSought, not his face who heard,But that Sad Star that sobs alwayUpon the breast of dying Day.

One full-robed; in his hand a book;

His lips, that labour’d for the word,

Scarce moved in utterance; and his look

Sought, not his face who heard,

But that Sad Star that sobs alway

Upon the breast of dying Day.

One, weary, with two-handed stressLeant on his shoulder-touching spearHis beard blown o’er the hairinessOf his great breast; and clearHis eyes shot speculation outTo catch the truth or quell the doubt.

One, weary, with two-handed stress

Leant on his shoulder-touching spear

His beard blown o’er the hairiness

Of his great breast; and clear

His eyes shot speculation out

To catch the truth or quell the doubt.

1. ‘The dreams of Hope, of blue-eyed Hope,Melt after morn and die in day;Love’s golden dew-globe, lit aslope,Dulls with a downward ray;Canst thou with all thy thought renewThe flying dreams or drying dew?’

1. ‘The dreams of Hope, of blue-eyed Hope,

Melt after morn and die in day;

Love’s golden dew-globe, lit aslope,

Dulls with a downward ray;

Canst thou with all thy thought renew

The flying dreams or drying dew?’

2. ‘Not I creator. Hour by hourI labour without stress or strifeTo gain more knowledge, greater power,A nobler, longer life.By thought alone we take our standAbove the world and win command.’

2. ‘Not I creator. Hour by hour

I labour without stress or strife

To gain more knowledge, greater power,

A nobler, longer life.

By thought alone we take our stand

Above the world and win command.’

1. ‘Know, Knowledge doth but clip our wings,And worldly Wisdom weaken worth,To make us lords of little things,And worm-gods of the earth.Were earth made Heaven by human wit,Some wild star yet might shatter it.’

1. ‘Know, Knowledge doth but clip our wings,

And worldly Wisdom weaken worth,

To make us lords of little things,

And worm-gods of the earth.

Were earth made Heaven by human wit,

Some wild star yet might shatter it.’

2. ‘The wings of Fancy are but frail,And Virtue’s without Wisdom weak;Better than Falsehood’s flowery vale,The Truth, however bleak.Tho’ she may bless not nor redeem,The Truth is true, and reigns supreme.’

2. ‘The wings of Fancy are but frail,

And Virtue’s without Wisdom weak;

Better than Falsehood’s flowery vale,

The Truth, however bleak.

Tho’ she may bless not nor redeem,

The Truth is true, and reigns supreme.’

1. ‘Not all, but few, can plead and proveAnd crown their brows with Truth and pass;Their little labours cannot moveThe mountain’s mighty mass.To man in vain the Truth appeals,Or Heav’n ordains, or Art reveals.’

1. ‘Not all, but few, can plead and prove

And crown their brows with Truth and pass;

Their little labours cannot move

The mountain’s mighty mass.

To man in vain the Truth appeals,

Or Heav’n ordains, or Art reveals.’

2. ‘So self-consuming thought. But seeThe standards of Advance unfurl’d;The buds are breaking on the lea,And Spring strikes thro’ the world.Tho’ we may never reach the Peak,God gave this great commandment, Seek.’. . . . .

2. ‘So self-consuming thought. But see

The standards of Advance unfurl’d;

The buds are breaking on the lea,

And Spring strikes thro’ the world.

Tho’ we may never reach the Peak,

God gave this great commandment, Seek.’

. . . . .

The ponderous bolts of Night were drawn;The pale Day peer’d thro’ cloudy bars;The Wind awoke; the sword of DawnFlasht thro’ the flying Stars;The new-born Sun-Star smote the Gloom:The Desert burst in endless Bloom.

The ponderous bolts of Night were drawn;

The pale Day peer’d thro’ cloudy bars;

The Wind awoke; the sword of Dawn

Flasht thro’ the flying Stars;

The new-born Sun-Star smote the Gloom:

The Desert burst in endless Bloom.

Bangalore, 1890.

Thought and ActionThe Angel of the Left Hand spake. His speechFell as when on some shuddering arctic beachThe icy Northern creeps from reach to reachAnd curdles motion and with thrilling spellFixes the falling ripple. ‘Peace and quell,’He said, ‘the action not maturèd well.What scorn to build with labour, round on round,And lay the costly marbles, when ’tis foundThe whole design at last inapt, unsound!Beware the bitter moment when awakeWe view the mischief that our visions make⁠—The good things broken in a mad mistake.But rather use the thought that is divine;And know that every moment of designWill save an hour of action, point for line.And leave to others loss or victory;And like the stars of heaven seek to beThe wise man’s compass but beyond the sea.’Then He upon the Right. His words came forthLike the full Southern blowing to the north.‘The time is come,’ he said, ‘to try thy worth.For when Thought’s wasted candles wane and wink,And meditations like the planets sink,The sun of Action rushes from the brink.Stand not for ever in the towers of ThoughtTo watch the watery dawning waste to noughtThe distant stars deluding darkness brought.Not timorous weak persuasion, but the brandOf Action—not discussion, but command⁠—Can rouse the ranks of God and storm the land,

Thought and ActionThe Angel of the Left Hand spake. His speechFell as when on some shuddering arctic beachThe icy Northern creeps from reach to reach

Thought and Action

The Angel of the Left Hand spake. His speech

Fell as when on some shuddering arctic beach

The icy Northern creeps from reach to reach

And curdles motion and with thrilling spellFixes the falling ripple. ‘Peace and quell,’He said, ‘the action not maturèd well.

And curdles motion and with thrilling spell

Fixes the falling ripple. ‘Peace and quell,’

He said, ‘the action not maturèd well.

What scorn to build with labour, round on round,And lay the costly marbles, when ’tis foundThe whole design at last inapt, unsound!

What scorn to build with labour, round on round,

And lay the costly marbles, when ’tis found

The whole design at last inapt, unsound!

Beware the bitter moment when awakeWe view the mischief that our visions make⁠—The good things broken in a mad mistake.

Beware the bitter moment when awake

We view the mischief that our visions make⁠—

The good things broken in a mad mistake.

But rather use the thought that is divine;And know that every moment of designWill save an hour of action, point for line.

But rather use the thought that is divine;

And know that every moment of design

Will save an hour of action, point for line.

And leave to others loss or victory;And like the stars of heaven seek to beThe wise man’s compass but beyond the sea.’

And leave to others loss or victory;

And like the stars of heaven seek to be

The wise man’s compass but beyond the sea.’

Then He upon the Right. His words came forthLike the full Southern blowing to the north.‘The time is come,’ he said, ‘to try thy worth.

Then He upon the Right. His words came forth

Like the full Southern blowing to the north.

‘The time is come,’ he said, ‘to try thy worth.

For when Thought’s wasted candles wane and wink,And meditations like the planets sink,The sun of Action rushes from the brink.

For when Thought’s wasted candles wane and wink,

And meditations like the planets sink,

The sun of Action rushes from the brink.

Stand not for ever in the towers of ThoughtTo watch the watery dawning waste to noughtThe distant stars deluding darkness brought.

Stand not for ever in the towers of Thought

To watch the watery dawning waste to nought

The distant stars deluding darkness brought.

Not timorous weak persuasion, but the brandOf Action—not discussion, but command⁠—Can rouse the ranks of God and storm the land,

Not timorous weak persuasion, but the brand

Of Action—not discussion, but command⁠—

Can rouse the ranks of God and storm the land,

Where men who know the day still doze again;Not walls of dust can dam th’ outrageous main,Nor mitigation seize the world and reign.Fear not. Unsheath the naked falchion. TryThe end. For in the end, who dares deny,The utter truth shall slay the utter lie.’Bangalore, 1890-3.

Where men who know the day still doze again;Not walls of dust can dam th’ outrageous main,Nor mitigation seize the world and reign.

Where men who know the day still doze again;

Not walls of dust can dam th’ outrageous main,

Nor mitigation seize the world and reign.

Fear not. Unsheath the naked falchion. TryThe end. For in the end, who dares deny,The utter truth shall slay the utter lie.’

Fear not. Unsheath the naked falchion. Try

The end. For in the end, who dares deny,

The utter truth shall slay the utter lie.’

Bangalore, 1890-3.

The Indian MotherFull fed with thoughts and knowledges sublime,And thundering oracles of the gods, that makeMan’s mind the flower of action and of time,I was one day where beggars come to takeDoles ere they die. An Indian mother there,Young, but so wretched that her staring eyesShone like the winter wolf’s with ravening glareOf hunger, struck me. For to much surpriseA three-year child well nourish’d at her breast,Wither’d with famine, still she fed and press’d⁠—For she was dying. ‘I am too poor,’ she said,‘To feed him otherwise’; and with a kissFell back and died. And the soul answeréd,‘In spite of all the gods and prophets—this!’Bangalore, 1890-3.

The Indian Mother

Full fed with thoughts and knowledges sublime,

And thundering oracles of the gods, that make

Man’s mind the flower of action and of time,

I was one day where beggars come to take

Doles ere they die. An Indian mother there,

Young, but so wretched that her staring eyes

Shone like the winter wolf’s with ravening glare

Of hunger, struck me. For to much surprise

A three-year child well nourish’d at her breast,

Wither’d with famine, still she fed and press’d⁠—

For she was dying. ‘I am too poor,’ she said,

‘To feed him otherwise’; and with a kiss

Fell back and died. And the soul answeréd,

‘In spite of all the gods and prophets—this!’

Bangalore, 1890-3.

Ganges-BorneThe fingers which had stray’dThro’ shining clusters of his children’s hairNow lifeless moved, and play’dWith horrible tresses of the ripples there;His eyes, as if he pray’d,Were cast beneath long eyelids, wan and spare.Rock’d by the roaring flood,He seem’d to speak as in debate with doom,Uplooking, while the floodBore him with thunder to the ocean foam.God’s face, a luminous cloud,Look’d thro’ the midnight, black, and horrible gloom.Bangalore, 1890-3.

Ganges-Borne

The fingers which had stray’d

Thro’ shining clusters of his children’s hair

Now lifeless moved, and play’d

With horrible tresses of the ripples there;

His eyes, as if he pray’d,

Were cast beneath long eyelids, wan and spare.

Rock’d by the roaring flood,He seem’d to speak as in debate with doom,Uplooking, while the floodBore him with thunder to the ocean foam.God’s face, a luminous cloud,Look’d thro’ the midnight, black, and horrible gloom.

Rock’d by the roaring flood,

He seem’d to speak as in debate with doom,

Uplooking, while the flood

Bore him with thunder to the ocean foam.

God’s face, a luminous cloud,

Look’d thro’ the midnight, black, and horrible gloom.

Bangalore, 1890-3.

Indian FeversIn this, O Nature, yield I pray to me.I pace and pace, and think and think, and takeThe fever’d hands, and note down all I see,That some dim distant light may haply break.. . . . . .The painful faces ask, can we not cure?We answer, No, not yet; we seek the laws.O God, reveal thro’ all this thing obscureThe unseen, small, but million-murdering cause.Bangalore, 1890-3.

Indian FeversIn this, O Nature, yield I pray to me.I pace and pace, and think and think, and takeThe fever’d hands, and note down all I see,That some dim distant light may haply break.. . . . . .

Indian Fevers

In this, O Nature, yield I pray to me.

I pace and pace, and think and think, and take

The fever’d hands, and note down all I see,

That some dim distant light may haply break.

. . . . . .

The painful faces ask, can we not cure?We answer, No, not yet; we seek the laws.O God, reveal thro’ all this thing obscureThe unseen, small, but million-murdering cause.

The painful faces ask, can we not cure?

We answer, No, not yet; we seek the laws.

O God, reveal thro’ all this thing obscure

The unseen, small, but million-murdering cause.

Bangalore, 1890-3.

The StarFar across the Loneland, far across the Sea,Far across the Sands, O silver shiningSister of the Silence, Sister of the Dew,Sister of the Twilight, lighten me.Ever art thou beaming. I, with eyes upcast,Gazing worn and weary from this Dark World,Ask of thee thy Wisdom, steadfast Eye of God,That I be as Thou art while I last.1890-3.

The StarFar across the Loneland, far across the Sea,Far across the Sands, O silver shiningSister of the Silence, Sister of the Dew,Sister of the Twilight, lighten me.

The Star

Far across the Loneland, far across the Sea,

Far across the Sands, O silver shining

Sister of the Silence, Sister of the Dew,

Sister of the Twilight, lighten me.

Ever art thou beaming. I, with eyes upcast,Gazing worn and weary from this Dark World,Ask of thee thy Wisdom, steadfast Eye of God,That I be as Thou art while I last.

Ever art thou beaming. I, with eyes upcast,

Gazing worn and weary from this Dark World,

Ask of thee thy Wisdom, steadfast Eye of God,

That I be as Thou art while I last.

1890-3.

PetitionTruth, whom I hold divine,Thy wings are strong to bearThro’ day or desperate night;For, ever those eyes of thine,Fix’d upward full of prayer,Are seeking for the light.Guide me and bear. DescendInto the sulphurous void—Tho’ I so weak, thy wingsStronger than him who, pen’dIn hell unmerited, buoy’dPoets past infernal springs.Take me and bear. DescendInto these deeps of death,Wherever the light may lead,Wherever the way may wend;And give to my failing breath,O Spirit, thy words of deed.1890-3.

PetitionTruth, whom I hold divine,Thy wings are strong to bearThro’ day or desperate night;For, ever those eyes of thine,Fix’d upward full of prayer,Are seeking for the light.

Petition

Truth, whom I hold divine,

Thy wings are strong to bear

Thro’ day or desperate night;

For, ever those eyes of thine,

Fix’d upward full of prayer,

Are seeking for the light.

Guide me and bear. DescendInto the sulphurous void—Tho’ I so weak, thy wingsStronger than him who, pen’dIn hell unmerited, buoy’dPoets past infernal springs.

Guide me and bear. Descend

Into the sulphurous void—

Tho’ I so weak, thy wings

Stronger than him who, pen’d

In hell unmerited, buoy’d

Poets past infernal springs.

Take me and bear. DescendInto these deeps of death,Wherever the light may lead,Wherever the way may wend;And give to my failing breath,O Spirit, thy words of deed.

Take me and bear. Descend

Into these deeps of death,

Wherever the light may lead,

Wherever the way may wend;

And give to my failing breath,

O Spirit, thy words of deed.

1890-3.

IN EXILE

DesertIThis profit yet remainsOf exile and the hourThat life in losing gainsPerhaps a fuller flower.Not less the prunèd shoot,Not less the barren year,Which yields the perfect fruit,Which makes the meaning clear.For on this desert soilA blessing comes unsought—Space for a single toil,Time for a single thought.When in distractions tost,Since oft distractions claimFor moments never lostOf each its higher aim,We live, we learn the wealthThe joyous hours may bring,But jealous time by stealthPuts all of it to wing;Pursuing empty artsWe gain no noble goal,And lose, in learning parts,The grandeur of the whole.If Patience, pouring tears—She cannot but lamentThe long unfruitful yearsOf exile, idly spent—Have patience, she will findThey were not all in vain,But each has left behindA little store of gain—A wider wisdom boughtWith labour; problems solved;The themes of inner thoughtMore thoroughly revolved.So one who entertain’dThe prosperous of the earth;No good from any gain’d,But lost his wealth and worth;In wrath he gather’d roundThe indigent and old;Each wretch, amazed he found,Had left a gift of gold.So one who sought a landWhere all the earth is ore;But had he sifted sandHe would have gather’d more.IIThe Sun arose and tookThe lofty heav’ns of right;From out the heav’ns he shookThe pestilence of his light.He paced upon his pathAnd from his right hand hurl’dThe javelins of his wrath,Contemptuous of the world.

DesertIThis profit yet remainsOf exile and the hourThat life in losing gainsPerhaps a fuller flower.

Desert

This profit yet remains

Of exile and the hour

That life in losing gains

Perhaps a fuller flower.

Not less the prunèd shoot,Not less the barren year,Which yields the perfect fruit,Which makes the meaning clear.

Not less the prunèd shoot,

Not less the barren year,

Which yields the perfect fruit,

Which makes the meaning clear.

For on this desert soilA blessing comes unsought—Space for a single toil,Time for a single thought.

For on this desert soil

A blessing comes unsought—

Space for a single toil,

Time for a single thought.

When in distractions tost,Since oft distractions claimFor moments never lostOf each its higher aim,

When in distractions tost,

Since oft distractions claim

For moments never lost

Of each its higher aim,

We live, we learn the wealthThe joyous hours may bring,But jealous time by stealthPuts all of it to wing;

We live, we learn the wealth

The joyous hours may bring,

But jealous time by stealth

Puts all of it to wing;

Pursuing empty artsWe gain no noble goal,And lose, in learning parts,The grandeur of the whole.

Pursuing empty arts

We gain no noble goal,

And lose, in learning parts,

The grandeur of the whole.

If Patience, pouring tears—She cannot but lamentThe long unfruitful yearsOf exile, idly spent—

If Patience, pouring tears—

She cannot but lament

The long unfruitful years

Of exile, idly spent—

Have patience, she will findThey were not all in vain,But each has left behindA little store of gain—

Have patience, she will find

They were not all in vain,

But each has left behind

A little store of gain—

A wider wisdom boughtWith labour; problems solved;The themes of inner thoughtMore thoroughly revolved.

A wider wisdom bought

With labour; problems solved;

The themes of inner thought

More thoroughly revolved.

So one who entertain’dThe prosperous of the earth;No good from any gain’d,But lost his wealth and worth;

So one who entertain’d

The prosperous of the earth;

No good from any gain’d,

But lost his wealth and worth;

In wrath he gather’d roundThe indigent and old;Each wretch, amazed he found,Had left a gift of gold.

In wrath he gather’d round

The indigent and old;

Each wretch, amazed he found,

Had left a gift of gold.

So one who sought a landWhere all the earth is ore;But had he sifted sandHe would have gather’d more.

So one who sought a land

Where all the earth is ore;

But had he sifted sand

He would have gather’d more.

The Sun arose and tookThe lofty heav’ns of right;From out the heav’ns he shookThe pestilence of his light.

The Sun arose and took

The lofty heav’ns of right;

From out the heav’ns he shook

The pestilence of his light.

He paced upon his pathAnd from his right hand hurl’dThe javelins of his wrath,Contemptuous of the world.

He paced upon his path

And from his right hand hurl’d

The javelins of his wrath,

Contemptuous of the world.

Before his scornful lipsThe forests fell down dead,And scowling in eclipseDisbanding thunders fled.He fills the hills with fireAnd blasts the barren plain;He hath stript the stricken briar,And slain the thorn again.He cracks the rocks, and cakesThe quagmires into crust,And slays the snake, and makesThe dead leaf writhe in dust.He halts in heav’n half wayAnd blackens earth with light;And the dark doom of dayLies on us like the night.A Land of clamorous cries;Of everlasting light;Of noises in the skiesAnd noises in the night.There is no night; the SunLives thro’ the night again;The image of the SunIs burnt upon the brain.O God! he still returns;He slays us in the dust;The brazen Death-Star burnsAnd stamps us into dust.IIIThe air is thunder-still.What motion is with us?Deep shocks of thunder fillThe deep sky ruinous;

Before his scornful lipsThe forests fell down dead,And scowling in eclipseDisbanding thunders fled.

Before his scornful lips

The forests fell down dead,

And scowling in eclipse

Disbanding thunders fled.

He fills the hills with fireAnd blasts the barren plain;He hath stript the stricken briar,And slain the thorn again.

He fills the hills with fire

And blasts the barren plain;

He hath stript the stricken briar,

And slain the thorn again.

He cracks the rocks, and cakesThe quagmires into crust,And slays the snake, and makesThe dead leaf writhe in dust.

He cracks the rocks, and cakes

The quagmires into crust,

And slays the snake, and makes

The dead leaf writhe in dust.

He halts in heav’n half wayAnd blackens earth with light;And the dark doom of dayLies on us like the night.

He halts in heav’n half way

And blackens earth with light;

And the dark doom of day

Lies on us like the night.

A Land of clamorous cries;Of everlasting light;Of noises in the skiesAnd noises in the night.

A Land of clamorous cries;

Of everlasting light;

Of noises in the skies

And noises in the night.

There is no night; the SunLives thro’ the night again;The image of the SunIs burnt upon the brain.

There is no night; the Sun

Lives thro’ the night again;

The image of the Sun

Is burnt upon the brain.

O God! he still returns;He slays us in the dust;The brazen Death-Star burnsAnd stamps us into dust.

O God! he still returns;

He slays us in the dust;

The brazen Death-Star burns

And stamps us into dust.

III

The air is thunder-still.What motion is with us?Deep shocks of thunder fillThe deep sky ruinous;

The air is thunder-still.

What motion is with us?

Deep shocks of thunder fill

The deep sky ruinous;

As if, down lumbering largeUpon these desert tracts,He had fallen about the margeIn cloudy cataracts.And spot by spot in dustThe writhing raindrops lie,And turn like blood to rust—Writhe, redden, shrink, and dry.A Land where all day long,Day-long descanting dirge,The heavy thunders hangAnd moan upon the verge;Where all day long the kiteHer querulous question cries,And circles lost in lightAbout the yellow skies;And thou, O Heart, art hushtIn the deep dead of day,Half restless and half crusht,Half soaring too away.Day-long the querulous kiteHer querulous question cries,And sails, a spot of night,About the vasty skies.The puff’d cheeks of typhoonsBlow thro’ the worthless cloudsThat roll in writhing moonsIn skies of many moods,None fruitful; and the cloudsTake up the dust and danceA dance of death and shrouds—Mock, mow, retire, advance.

As if, down lumbering largeUpon these desert tracts,He had fallen about the margeIn cloudy cataracts.

As if, down lumbering large

Upon these desert tracts,

He had fallen about the marge

In cloudy cataracts.

And spot by spot in dustThe writhing raindrops lie,And turn like blood to rust—Writhe, redden, shrink, and dry.

And spot by spot in dust

The writhing raindrops lie,

And turn like blood to rust—

Writhe, redden, shrink, and dry.

A Land where all day long,Day-long descanting dirge,The heavy thunders hangAnd moan upon the verge;

A Land where all day long,

Day-long descanting dirge,

The heavy thunders hang

And moan upon the verge;

Where all day long the kiteHer querulous question cries,And circles lost in lightAbout the yellow skies;

Where all day long the kite

Her querulous question cries,

And circles lost in light

About the yellow skies;

And thou, O Heart, art hushtIn the deep dead of day,Half restless and half crusht,Half soaring too away.

And thou, O Heart, art husht

In the deep dead of day,

Half restless and half crusht,

Half soaring too away.

Day-long the querulous kiteHer querulous question cries,And sails, a spot of night,About the vasty skies.

Day-long the querulous kite

Her querulous question cries,

And sails, a spot of night,

About the vasty skies.

The puff’d cheeks of typhoonsBlow thro’ the worthless cloudsThat roll in writhing moonsIn skies of many moods,

The puff’d cheeks of typhoons

Blow thro’ the worthless clouds

That roll in writhing moons

In skies of many moods,

None fruitful; and the cloudsTake up the dust and danceA dance of death and shrouds—Mock, mow, retire, advance.

None fruitful; and the clouds

Take up the dust and dance

A dance of death and shrouds—

Mock, mow, retire, advance.

IVWhere is the rain? We hearThe footsteps of the rain,Walking in dust, and, near,Dull thunders over the plain.Cloud?—dust. The wind awakes;The base dust we have trodSmokes up to heaven and takesThe thunderings of God.No rain. The angry dustCries out against the rain;The clouds are backward thrust;The monstrous Sun again.We hoped the rain would fallAfter the dreadful day,For we heard the thunders callEach other far away.We hoped for rain becauseAfter thunder rain is given;And yet it only wasThe mockery of heaven.He is the lord of us;He will unconquered sink,Red, but victorious,And smoking to the brink.Shout, barren thunders, shoutAnd rattle and melt again!So fall the fates about,So melt the hopes of men.Rattle aloft and wakeThe sleepers on the roofs,Wild steeds of heav’n, and shakeHeav’n with your echoing hoofs.Awake the weary at nightUntil they cry, “The rain!”—Then take to tempestuous flightAnd melt into air again.VThis is the land of Death;The sun his taper isWherewith he numberethThe dead bones that are his.He walks beside the deepAnd counts the mouldering bonesIn lands of tumbling steepAnd cataracts of stones.About his feet the hostsOf dead leaves he hath slainAwaken, shrieking ghostsDemanding life again.O silent Sepulchre,Great East, disastrous clime;O grave of things that were;O catacombs of time;O silent catacombs;O blear’d memorial stones;Where laughing in the tombsDeath plays with mouldering bones;And through dead bones the stalkOf the living herb is thrust;And we, the living, walkIn wastes of human dust.Dust—thou art dust. Thy Sun,Thy lord, and lord of dust,Doth stamp thee into oneGreat plain of dust; and dust

Where is the rain? We hearThe footsteps of the rain,Walking in dust, and, near,Dull thunders over the plain.

Where is the rain? We hear

The footsteps of the rain,

Walking in dust, and, near,

Dull thunders over the plain.

Cloud?—dust. The wind awakes;The base dust we have trodSmokes up to heaven and takesThe thunderings of God.

Cloud?—dust. The wind awakes;

The base dust we have trod

Smokes up to heaven and takes

The thunderings of God.

No rain. The angry dustCries out against the rain;The clouds are backward thrust;The monstrous Sun again.

No rain. The angry dust

Cries out against the rain;

The clouds are backward thrust;

The monstrous Sun again.

We hoped the rain would fallAfter the dreadful day,For we heard the thunders callEach other far away.

We hoped the rain would fall

After the dreadful day,

For we heard the thunders call

Each other far away.

We hoped for rain becauseAfter thunder rain is given;And yet it only wasThe mockery of heaven.

We hoped for rain because

After thunder rain is given;

And yet it only was

The mockery of heaven.

He is the lord of us;He will unconquered sink,Red, but victorious,And smoking to the brink.

He is the lord of us;

He will unconquered sink,

Red, but victorious,

And smoking to the brink.

Shout, barren thunders, shoutAnd rattle and melt again!So fall the fates about,So melt the hopes of men.

Shout, barren thunders, shout

And rattle and melt again!

So fall the fates about,

So melt the hopes of men.

Rattle aloft and wakeThe sleepers on the roofs,Wild steeds of heav’n, and shakeHeav’n with your echoing hoofs.

Rattle aloft and wake

The sleepers on the roofs,

Wild steeds of heav’n, and shake

Heav’n with your echoing hoofs.

Awake the weary at nightUntil they cry, “The rain!”—Then take to tempestuous flightAnd melt into air again.

Awake the weary at night

Until they cry, “The rain!”—

Then take to tempestuous flight

And melt into air again.

This is the land of Death;The sun his taper isWherewith he numberethThe dead bones that are his.

This is the land of Death;

The sun his taper is

Wherewith he numbereth

The dead bones that are his.

He walks beside the deepAnd counts the mouldering bonesIn lands of tumbling steepAnd cataracts of stones.

He walks beside the deep

And counts the mouldering bones

In lands of tumbling steep

And cataracts of stones.

About his feet the hostsOf dead leaves he hath slainAwaken, shrieking ghostsDemanding life again.

About his feet the hosts

Of dead leaves he hath slain

Awaken, shrieking ghosts

Demanding life again.

O silent Sepulchre,Great East, disastrous clime;O grave of things that were;O catacombs of time;

O silent Sepulchre,

Great East, disastrous clime;

O grave of things that were;

O catacombs of time;

O silent catacombs;O blear’d memorial stones;Where laughing in the tombsDeath plays with mouldering bones;

O silent catacombs;

O blear’d memorial stones;

Where laughing in the tombs

Death plays with mouldering bones;

And through dead bones the stalkOf the living herb is thrust;And we, the living, walkIn wastes of human dust.

And through dead bones the stalk

Of the living herb is thrust;

And we, the living, walk

In wastes of human dust.

Dust—thou art dust. Thy Sun,Thy lord, and lord of dust,Doth stamp thee into oneGreat plain of dust; and dust

Dust—thou art dust. Thy Sun,

Thy lord, and lord of dust,

Doth stamp thee into one

Great plain of dust; and dust

Thy heav’ns, thy nights, thy days;Thy temples and thy creeds;Thy crumbling palaces;Thy far forgotten deeds,—Infinite dust. Half living,We clothe ourselves in dustAnd live, not to be living,Butbecause we must.Thy winds are full of death;Death comes we know not whence;Thy forests have a breathOf secret pestilence;Thy rivers rolling largeAre blest with no sweet green,But silent at the margeThe waiting monsters seen.No scented silence, eve,But night a noisy gloom;And we thy captives live,The derelicts of doom.

Thy heav’ns, thy nights, thy days;Thy temples and thy creeds;Thy crumbling palaces;Thy far forgotten deeds,—

Thy heav’ns, thy nights, thy days;

Thy temples and thy creeds;

Thy crumbling palaces;

Thy far forgotten deeds,—

Infinite dust. Half living,We clothe ourselves in dustAnd live, not to be living,Butbecause we must.

Infinite dust. Half living,

We clothe ourselves in dust

And live, not to be living,

Butbecause we must.

Thy winds are full of death;Death comes we know not whence;Thy forests have a breathOf secret pestilence;

Thy winds are full of death;

Death comes we know not whence;

Thy forests have a breath

Of secret pestilence;

Thy rivers rolling largeAre blest with no sweet green,But silent at the margeThe waiting monsters seen.

Thy rivers rolling large

Are blest with no sweet green,

But silent at the marge

The waiting monsters seen.

No scented silence, eve,But night a noisy gloom;And we thy captives live,The derelicts of doom.

No scented silence, eve,

But night a noisy gloom;

And we thy captives live,

The derelicts of doom.

Vox ClamantisILong, long the barren years;Long, long, O God, hast thouAppointed for our tearsThis term of exile. Lo,Life is but nothing thus:Old friendships perishèd;Not hand in hand with usThe dying father dead;Narrow’d the mind that shouldThro’ all experience rangeAnd grow; in solitudeUnheard the wheels of change.When sadly numberingThe wasted golden hoursOur fate hath put to wing,That had perchance been oursTo have seen, to have known, to have trodAbout from pole to girthThis heritage of God,This wondrous sculptured earth,Seeing that never againThe usurer Time gives back,How should we not complainThis Present, barren-black?We said, ‘We must not mourn;The end is always good;Well past the pain well borne.’But Sorrow in her moodWould not be comforted,And cried, ‘I know the truth;Where are the distant dead,And where the wasted youth?Let Wisdom take her groundAnd Hope do what she can;Ill heals the dreadful woundThat severs half a man.’Sorrow, not so beguiled,Would take my hand and lead,But waiting Wisdom smiledAnd took my hand instead,And answered, ‘Well I redeThe shackled win the goal;The body’s strengthener Need,And Sorrow of the soul.But mine the part be givenTo guide and hers to follow,And so win thro’ to heaven.’And Sorrow said, ‘I follow.’IITo sadness and to selfWe should not enter in—Sadness the shadow of selfAnd self the shadow of sin—Unless because the wholeOf human life appearsClear only when the soulIs darken’d thro’ with tears.The day too full of lightWith light her own light mars;But in the shading nightThe shining host of stars.

Vox ClamantisILong, long the barren years;Long, long, O God, hast thouAppointed for our tearsThis term of exile. Lo,

Vox Clamantis

Long, long the barren years;

Long, long, O God, hast thou

Appointed for our tears

This term of exile. Lo,

Life is but nothing thus:Old friendships perishèd;Not hand in hand with usThe dying father dead;

Life is but nothing thus:

Old friendships perishèd;

Not hand in hand with us

The dying father dead;

Narrow’d the mind that shouldThro’ all experience rangeAnd grow; in solitudeUnheard the wheels of change.

Narrow’d the mind that should

Thro’ all experience range

And grow; in solitude

Unheard the wheels of change.

When sadly numberingThe wasted golden hoursOur fate hath put to wing,That had perchance been ours

When sadly numbering

The wasted golden hours

Our fate hath put to wing,

That had perchance been ours

To have seen, to have known, to have trodAbout from pole to girthThis heritage of God,This wondrous sculptured earth,

To have seen, to have known, to have trod

About from pole to girth

This heritage of God,

This wondrous sculptured earth,

Seeing that never againThe usurer Time gives back,How should we not complainThis Present, barren-black?

Seeing that never again

The usurer Time gives back,

How should we not complain

This Present, barren-black?

We said, ‘We must not mourn;The end is always good;Well past the pain well borne.’But Sorrow in her mood

We said, ‘We must not mourn;

The end is always good;

Well past the pain well borne.’

But Sorrow in her mood

Would not be comforted,And cried, ‘I know the truth;Where are the distant dead,And where the wasted youth?

Would not be comforted,

And cried, ‘I know the truth;

Where are the distant dead,

And where the wasted youth?

Let Wisdom take her groundAnd Hope do what she can;Ill heals the dreadful woundThat severs half a man.’

Let Wisdom take her ground

And Hope do what she can;

Ill heals the dreadful wound

That severs half a man.’

Sorrow, not so beguiled,Would take my hand and lead,But waiting Wisdom smiledAnd took my hand instead,

Sorrow, not so beguiled,

Would take my hand and lead,

But waiting Wisdom smiled

And took my hand instead,

And answered, ‘Well I redeThe shackled win the goal;The body’s strengthener Need,And Sorrow of the soul.

And answered, ‘Well I rede

The shackled win the goal;

The body’s strengthener Need,

And Sorrow of the soul.

But mine the part be givenTo guide and hers to follow,And so win thro’ to heaven.’And Sorrow said, ‘I follow.’

But mine the part be given

To guide and hers to follow,

And so win thro’ to heaven.’

And Sorrow said, ‘I follow.’

To sadness and to selfWe should not enter in—Sadness the shadow of selfAnd self the shadow of sin—

To sadness and to self

We should not enter in—

Sadness the shadow of self

And self the shadow of sin—

Unless because the wholeOf human life appearsClear only when the soulIs darken’d thro’ with tears.

Unless because the whole

Of human life appears

Clear only when the soul

Is darken’d thro’ with tears.

The day too full of lightWith light her own light mars;But in the shading nightThe shining host of stars.

The day too full of light

With light her own light mars;

But in the shading night

The shining host of stars.

That, leaving manhood, menShould kiss the hands of griefAnd, loving but the wen,The wart, the wither’d leaf,Amass a hoard of husksWhen joy is in the cornNor ever evening dusksWithout the tints of morn,Informs with doubt if goodBe, or omnipotent;Since in the brightest bloodThis idle discontent.Joy, jester at herself,And happiness, of woe,If self at peace with selfKnow not, when shall he know?So one, a prosperous man;Nightly the people fillHis toast, and what he canIs only what he will.They shout; his name is wedWith thunders; torches flare;Tost in a wretched bedHe chews a trifling care.IIIOne says in scorn, ‘The strifeTo live well keeps us well,And ’tis the unworthy lifeThat makes the prison cell.’And one, ‘An angel stoodOn sands of withering heat;The flowerless solitudeGrew green beneath his feet.’

That, leaving manhood, menShould kiss the hands of griefAnd, loving but the wen,The wart, the wither’d leaf,

That, leaving manhood, men

Should kiss the hands of grief

And, loving but the wen,

The wart, the wither’d leaf,

Amass a hoard of husksWhen joy is in the cornNor ever evening dusksWithout the tints of morn,

Amass a hoard of husks

When joy is in the corn

Nor ever evening dusks

Without the tints of morn,

Informs with doubt if goodBe, or omnipotent;Since in the brightest bloodThis idle discontent.

Informs with doubt if good

Be, or omnipotent;

Since in the brightest blood

This idle discontent.

Joy, jester at herself,And happiness, of woe,If self at peace with selfKnow not, when shall he know?

Joy, jester at herself,

And happiness, of woe,

If self at peace with self

Know not, when shall he know?

So one, a prosperous man;Nightly the people fillHis toast, and what he canIs only what he will.

So one, a prosperous man;

Nightly the people fill

His toast, and what he can

Is only what he will.

They shout; his name is wedWith thunders; torches flare;Tost in a wretched bedHe chews a trifling care.

They shout; his name is wed

With thunders; torches flare;

Tost in a wretched bed

He chews a trifling care.

III

One says in scorn, ‘The strifeTo live well keeps us well,And ’tis the unworthy lifeThat makes the prison cell.’

One says in scorn, ‘The strife

To live well keeps us well,

And ’tis the unworthy life

That makes the prison cell.’

And one, ‘An angel stoodOn sands of withering heat;The flowerless solitudeGrew green beneath his feet.’

And one, ‘An angel stood

On sands of withering heat;

The flowerless solitude

Grew green beneath his feet.’

A third, ‘Many would liefEndure thy solitudeAs else. Ascribe thy griefTo poison in the blood.’And I, ‘O Soul, contentYet in thine exile dwell,And live up to thy bent.Not more than well is well;But take the sports divine,The largesse of the earth;Wind-drinking steeds be thineAnd blowsèd chase—the mirthOf those who wisely drawTheir lives in nature’s veinAnd live in the large law,Of slaying or being slain.‘Or learn by looking round.Lift up thine eyes. AvowThe gardener of thy groundDoth worthier work than thou.From his poor cot he wendsAt early break of day;His pretty charges tendsIn his unskilful way.Much wearied with his toilHe labours thro’ the hours,And pours upon the soilRefreshment for his flowers.‘Tho’ bent with aged stoop,To him no rest is given,But the heads of those that droopHe raises up to heaven.Half ready for the grave,His weakness he forgets,More scrupulous to saveThe breath of violets.

A third, ‘Many would liefEndure thy solitudeAs else. Ascribe thy griefTo poison in the blood.’

A third, ‘Many would lief

Endure thy solitude

As else. Ascribe thy grief

To poison in the blood.’

And I, ‘O Soul, contentYet in thine exile dwell,And live up to thy bent.Not more than well is well;

And I, ‘O Soul, content

Yet in thine exile dwell,

And live up to thy bent.

Not more than well is well;

But take the sports divine,The largesse of the earth;Wind-drinking steeds be thineAnd blowsèd chase—the mirth

But take the sports divine,

The largesse of the earth;

Wind-drinking steeds be thine

And blowsèd chase—the mirth

Of those who wisely drawTheir lives in nature’s veinAnd live in the large law,Of slaying or being slain.

Of those who wisely draw

Their lives in nature’s vein

And live in the large law,

Of slaying or being slain.

‘Or learn by looking round.Lift up thine eyes. AvowThe gardener of thy groundDoth worthier work than thou.

‘Or learn by looking round.

Lift up thine eyes. Avow

The gardener of thy ground

Doth worthier work than thou.

From his poor cot he wendsAt early break of day;His pretty charges tendsIn his unskilful way.

From his poor cot he wends

At early break of day;

His pretty charges tends

In his unskilful way.

Much wearied with his toilHe labours thro’ the hours,And pours upon the soilRefreshment for his flowers.

Much wearied with his toil

He labours thro’ the hours,

And pours upon the soil

Refreshment for his flowers.

‘Tho’ bent with aged stoop,To him no rest is given,But the heads of those that droopHe raises up to heaven.

‘Tho’ bent with aged stoop,

To him no rest is given,

But the heads of those that droop

He raises up to heaven.

Half ready for the grave,His weakness he forgets,More scrupulous to saveThe breath of violets.

Half ready for the grave,

His weakness he forgets,

More scrupulous to save

The breath of violets.

But at the evening hourWhen he shall seek repose,The voice of every flowerWill bless him as he goes.’

But at the evening hour

When he shall seek repose,

The voice of every flower

Will bless him as he goes.’

Self-SorrowsIThese stones that idly makeAn idle land and lie,Fantastic forms, or breakDown crumbling hills not highIn arid cataractsWhere meagre cattle strayTo search the meagre tractsOf bitter grass: for ayeThey move not, live not, lieDull eyes that watch the world,And exiles asking whyGod brought them here or hurl’d.We would we could have tornThis winding web of fateWhich round us barely bornHath bought us to this stateOf being cast awayAmong these tombs. The riverOf life here day by dayRuns downward slower everInto black washes. TrueYet holds our destiny—To live a year or two,Look round us once and die.If we should try to traceIn portions, line by line,The beauty of a faceTo know why thus divine,Seeing but many curves,We miss the inner soulAnd find no part deservesThat merit of the whole.And so to analyseThy mournful spirit vain,O Exile; but our sighsSuffice to prove the pain.To grow from much to moreIn knowledge, and to putA power to every power,A foot before a foot,Toward that goal of goodThat glimmers thro’ the nightAbove the time and mood,A star of constant light;At last to meet the dark,The goal not reach’d indeed,But full of hours and work,Are, Exile, not thy creed.And less to leap to catchThe spinning spokes of change;In our brief life to snatchAll aspects and to rangeFull-face with every view;To sit with those who toil,Great spirits, toiling too;Still less to fan or foilThose fires that, rushing fastThro’ all the people’s life,Break roaring round the pastIn renovating strife.If in the energic WestMan ever grows more large,Like ocean without restExploring at the marge,Here lower yet he turnsFor ever downward thrust—The baleful Sun-God burnsAnd breaks him into dust;Or like his native plainsWhere nothing new appears,Or hath appeared, remainsUnchanged a thousand years.IITho’ sorrows darkly veiledAt all men’s tables (norThe guests make question, paled,Nor children hush beforeThose presences of grief)Sit, yet to all men dueDue rights; the sweet reliefOf home; the friendship true;The dying word; to feelTheir country in their keep;To heave along the wheel,And push against the steep.But in this wilderness,Wed to a rock or two,What joys have we to bless?Far, far, our friends and few;And thou, O happy Land,We dream of thee in vain—One moment see, then standWithin this waste again.The great earth in her zonesMatureth day by day;But we, like waiting stones,Know time but by decay.Grief hath a shadow, shame;And manhood, meanly tostIn woes without a nameAnd sorrows that are lost,

Self-SorrowsIThese stones that idly makeAn idle land and lie,Fantastic forms, or breakDown crumbling hills not high

Self-Sorrows

These stones that idly make

An idle land and lie,

Fantastic forms, or break

Down crumbling hills not high

In arid cataractsWhere meagre cattle strayTo search the meagre tractsOf bitter grass: for aye

In arid cataracts

Where meagre cattle stray

To search the meagre tracts

Of bitter grass: for aye

They move not, live not, lieDull eyes that watch the world,And exiles asking whyGod brought them here or hurl’d.

They move not, live not, lie

Dull eyes that watch the world,

And exiles asking why

God brought them here or hurl’d.

We would we could have tornThis winding web of fateWhich round us barely bornHath bought us to this state

We would we could have torn

This winding web of fate

Which round us barely born

Hath bought us to this state

Of being cast awayAmong these tombs. The riverOf life here day by dayRuns downward slower ever

Of being cast away

Among these tombs. The river

Of life here day by day

Runs downward slower ever

Into black washes. TrueYet holds our destiny—To live a year or two,Look round us once and die.

Into black washes. True

Yet holds our destiny—

To live a year or two,

Look round us once and die.

If we should try to traceIn portions, line by line,The beauty of a faceTo know why thus divine,

If we should try to trace

In portions, line by line,

The beauty of a face

To know why thus divine,

Seeing but many curves,We miss the inner soulAnd find no part deservesThat merit of the whole.

Seeing but many curves,

We miss the inner soul

And find no part deserves

That merit of the whole.

And so to analyseThy mournful spirit vain,O Exile; but our sighsSuffice to prove the pain.

And so to analyse

Thy mournful spirit vain,

O Exile; but our sighs

Suffice to prove the pain.

To grow from much to moreIn knowledge, and to putA power to every power,A foot before a foot,

To grow from much to more

In knowledge, and to put

A power to every power,

A foot before a foot,

Toward that goal of goodThat glimmers thro’ the nightAbove the time and mood,A star of constant light;

Toward that goal of good

That glimmers thro’ the night

Above the time and mood,

A star of constant light;

At last to meet the dark,The goal not reach’d indeed,But full of hours and work,Are, Exile, not thy creed.

At last to meet the dark,

The goal not reach’d indeed,

But full of hours and work,

Are, Exile, not thy creed.

And less to leap to catchThe spinning spokes of change;In our brief life to snatchAll aspects and to range

And less to leap to catch

The spinning spokes of change;

In our brief life to snatch

All aspects and to range

Full-face with every view;To sit with those who toil,Great spirits, toiling too;Still less to fan or foil

Full-face with every view;

To sit with those who toil,

Great spirits, toiling too;

Still less to fan or foil

Those fires that, rushing fastThro’ all the people’s life,Break roaring round the pastIn renovating strife.

Those fires that, rushing fast

Thro’ all the people’s life,

Break roaring round the past

In renovating strife.

If in the energic WestMan ever grows more large,Like ocean without restExploring at the marge,

If in the energic West

Man ever grows more large,

Like ocean without rest

Exploring at the marge,

Here lower yet he turnsFor ever downward thrust—The baleful Sun-God burnsAnd breaks him into dust;

Here lower yet he turns

For ever downward thrust—

The baleful Sun-God burns

And breaks him into dust;

Or like his native plainsWhere nothing new appears,Or hath appeared, remainsUnchanged a thousand years.II

Or like his native plains

Where nothing new appears,

Or hath appeared, remains

Unchanged a thousand years.

Tho’ sorrows darkly veiledAt all men’s tables (norThe guests make question, paled,Nor children hush before

Tho’ sorrows darkly veiled

At all men’s tables (nor

The guests make question, paled,

Nor children hush before

Those presences of grief)Sit, yet to all men dueDue rights; the sweet reliefOf home; the friendship true;

Those presences of grief)

Sit, yet to all men due

Due rights; the sweet relief

Of home; the friendship true;

The dying word; to feelTheir country in their keep;To heave along the wheel,And push against the steep.

The dying word; to feel

Their country in their keep;

To heave along the wheel,

And push against the steep.

But in this wilderness,Wed to a rock or two,What joys have we to bless?Far, far, our friends and few;

But in this wilderness,

Wed to a rock or two,

What joys have we to bless?

Far, far, our friends and few;

And thou, O happy Land,We dream of thee in vain—One moment see, then standWithin this waste again.

And thou, O happy Land,

We dream of thee in vain—

One moment see, then stand

Within this waste again.

The great earth in her zonesMatureth day by day;But we, like waiting stones,Know time but by decay.

The great earth in her zones

Matureth day by day;

But we, like waiting stones,

Know time but by decay.

Grief hath a shadow, shame;And manhood, meanly tostIn woes without a nameAnd sorrows that are lost,

Grief hath a shadow, shame;

And manhood, meanly tost

In woes without a name

And sorrows that are lost,

Back to Index Next