Whencemay I glean a just return, my friend,For tidings of your great world hither borne?What garbs of new opinion men have wornI wot not, nor what fame world-without-endSprouted last night, nor know I to contendFor Irving or the Italian; but forlornIn this odd angle of the isle from mornTill eve, nor sow, nor reap, nor get, nor spend.Yet have I heard the sea-gulls scream for gleeTreading the drenched rock-ridges, and the galeHiss over tremulous heath-bells, while the beeDriven sidelong quested low; and I have seenThe live sea-hollows, and moving mounds grey-green,And watched the flying foam-bow flush and fail.
Whencemay I glean a just return, my friend,For tidings of your great world hither borne?What garbs of new opinion men have wornI wot not, nor what fame world-without-endSprouted last night, nor know I to contendFor Irving or the Italian; but forlornIn this odd angle of the isle from mornTill eve, nor sow, nor reap, nor get, nor spend.Yet have I heard the sea-gulls scream for gleeTreading the drenched rock-ridges, and the galeHiss over tremulous heath-bells, while the beeDriven sidelong quested low; and I have seenThe live sea-hollows, and moving mounds grey-green,And watched the flying foam-bow flush and fail.
Whencemay I glean a just return, my friend,For tidings of your great world hither borne?What garbs of new opinion men have wornI wot not, nor what fame world-without-endSprouted last night, nor know I to contendFor Irving or the Italian; but forlornIn this odd angle of the isle from mornTill eve, nor sow, nor reap, nor get, nor spend.Yet have I heard the sea-gulls scream for gleeTreading the drenched rock-ridges, and the galeHiss over tremulous heath-bells, while the beeDriven sidelong quested low; and I have seenThe live sea-hollows, and moving mounds grey-green,And watched the flying foam-bow flush and fail.
Nevercan we be strangers, you and I,Nor quite disown our mysteries of kin,Grey Sea-rocks, since I sat an hour to-dayCompanion of the Ocean and of you.I, sensitive soft flesh a thorn invades,The light breath of a rose can win aside,Flesh fashioned to be hourly tried and thrill’d,Delighted, tortured, to betray whose wardThe unready heart is ruler, still surprised,With emissary flushes swift and false,And tremulous to touches of the stars.You, spiny ridges of the land, rude backs,Clawless and wingless, half-created things,Monsters at ease before the sun and sea,Untamed, unshrinking, unpersuadable,My kindred.For the wide-delivering wombWhich casts abroad a mammoth as a man,And still conceals the new and better birth,Bore me and you. Old parents of the SphinxWhat words primeval murmured in my earsTo-day between the lapping of the waves?What recognitions flashed and disappeared?What rare faint touches passed of sympathyFrom you to me, from me to you? What senseOf the ancestral things shadowed the heart,Cloud-like, and with the pleasure of a cloud.Therefore I know from henceforth that the shrillShort crying of the sea-lark when his feetTouch where the wave slips off the shining sandPierces you; and the wide and luminous airImpregnate with sharp sea smells is to youA passion and allurement; and the sunAt mid-day loads your sense with drowsy warmth,And in the waver and echo of your caves,You cherish memories of the billowy chaunt,And ponder its dim prophecy.And I,—Lo here I strike upon the granite too,Something is here austere and obdurateAs you are, something rugged and untamed.A strength behind the will. I am not allThe shapely, agile creature named a man,So artful, with the quick-conceiving brain,Nerve-network, and the hand to grasp and hold,Most dexterous of kinds that wage the strifeOf being through the years. I am not allThis creature with the various heart, aliveTo curious joys, rare anguish, skilled in shames,Prides, hatreds, loves, fears, frauds, the heart which turnsA sudden venomous asp, the heart which bleedsThe red, great drops of glad self-sacrifice.Pierce below these and seek the primal layer!Behind Apollo loom the Earth-born Ones,Half-god, half-brute; behind this symmetry,This versatility of heart and brainA strength abides, sustaining thought and love,Untamed, unshrinking, unpersuadable,At ease before the powers of Earth and Heaven,Equal to any, of no younger years,Calm as the greatest, haughty as the best,Of imprescriptible authority.Down upon you I sink, and leave myself,My vain, frail self, and find repose on you,Prime Force, whether amassed through myriad yearsFrom dear accretions of dead ancestry,Or ever welling from the source of thingsIn undulation vast and unperceived,Down upon you I sink and lose myself!My child that shouts and races on the sandYour cry restores me. Have I been with Pan,Kissing the hoofs of his goat-majesty?You come, no granite of the nether earth,Bright sea-flower rather, shining foam that flies,Yet sweet as blossom of our inland fields.
Nevercan we be strangers, you and I,Nor quite disown our mysteries of kin,Grey Sea-rocks, since I sat an hour to-dayCompanion of the Ocean and of you.I, sensitive soft flesh a thorn invades,The light breath of a rose can win aside,Flesh fashioned to be hourly tried and thrill’d,Delighted, tortured, to betray whose wardThe unready heart is ruler, still surprised,With emissary flushes swift and false,And tremulous to touches of the stars.You, spiny ridges of the land, rude backs,Clawless and wingless, half-created things,Monsters at ease before the sun and sea,Untamed, unshrinking, unpersuadable,My kindred.For the wide-delivering wombWhich casts abroad a mammoth as a man,And still conceals the new and better birth,Bore me and you. Old parents of the SphinxWhat words primeval murmured in my earsTo-day between the lapping of the waves?What recognitions flashed and disappeared?What rare faint touches passed of sympathyFrom you to me, from me to you? What senseOf the ancestral things shadowed the heart,Cloud-like, and with the pleasure of a cloud.Therefore I know from henceforth that the shrillShort crying of the sea-lark when his feetTouch where the wave slips off the shining sandPierces you; and the wide and luminous airImpregnate with sharp sea smells is to youA passion and allurement; and the sunAt mid-day loads your sense with drowsy warmth,And in the waver and echo of your caves,You cherish memories of the billowy chaunt,And ponder its dim prophecy.And I,—Lo here I strike upon the granite too,Something is here austere and obdurateAs you are, something rugged and untamed.A strength behind the will. I am not allThe shapely, agile creature named a man,So artful, with the quick-conceiving brain,Nerve-network, and the hand to grasp and hold,Most dexterous of kinds that wage the strifeOf being through the years. I am not allThis creature with the various heart, aliveTo curious joys, rare anguish, skilled in shames,Prides, hatreds, loves, fears, frauds, the heart which turnsA sudden venomous asp, the heart which bleedsThe red, great drops of glad self-sacrifice.Pierce below these and seek the primal layer!Behind Apollo loom the Earth-born Ones,Half-god, half-brute; behind this symmetry,This versatility of heart and brainA strength abides, sustaining thought and love,Untamed, unshrinking, unpersuadable,At ease before the powers of Earth and Heaven,Equal to any, of no younger years,Calm as the greatest, haughty as the best,Of imprescriptible authority.Down upon you I sink, and leave myself,My vain, frail self, and find repose on you,Prime Force, whether amassed through myriad yearsFrom dear accretions of dead ancestry,Or ever welling from the source of thingsIn undulation vast and unperceived,Down upon you I sink and lose myself!My child that shouts and races on the sandYour cry restores me. Have I been with Pan,Kissing the hoofs of his goat-majesty?You come, no granite of the nether earth,Bright sea-flower rather, shining foam that flies,Yet sweet as blossom of our inland fields.
Nevercan we be strangers, you and I,Nor quite disown our mysteries of kin,Grey Sea-rocks, since I sat an hour to-dayCompanion of the Ocean and of you.I, sensitive soft flesh a thorn invades,The light breath of a rose can win aside,Flesh fashioned to be hourly tried and thrill’d,Delighted, tortured, to betray whose wardThe unready heart is ruler, still surprised,With emissary flushes swift and false,And tremulous to touches of the stars.You, spiny ridges of the land, rude backs,Clawless and wingless, half-created things,Monsters at ease before the sun and sea,Untamed, unshrinking, unpersuadable,My kindred.
For the wide-delivering wombWhich casts abroad a mammoth as a man,And still conceals the new and better birth,Bore me and you. Old parents of the SphinxWhat words primeval murmured in my earsTo-day between the lapping of the waves?What recognitions flashed and disappeared?What rare faint touches passed of sympathyFrom you to me, from me to you? What senseOf the ancestral things shadowed the heart,Cloud-like, and with the pleasure of a cloud.Therefore I know from henceforth that the shrillShort crying of the sea-lark when his feetTouch where the wave slips off the shining sandPierces you; and the wide and luminous airImpregnate with sharp sea smells is to youA passion and allurement; and the sunAt mid-day loads your sense with drowsy warmth,And in the waver and echo of your caves,You cherish memories of the billowy chaunt,And ponder its dim prophecy.
And I,—Lo here I strike upon the granite too,Something is here austere and obdurateAs you are, something rugged and untamed.A strength behind the will. I am not allThe shapely, agile creature named a man,So artful, with the quick-conceiving brain,Nerve-network, and the hand to grasp and hold,Most dexterous of kinds that wage the strifeOf being through the years. I am not allThis creature with the various heart, aliveTo curious joys, rare anguish, skilled in shames,Prides, hatreds, loves, fears, frauds, the heart which turnsA sudden venomous asp, the heart which bleedsThe red, great drops of glad self-sacrifice.Pierce below these and seek the primal layer!Behind Apollo loom the Earth-born Ones,Half-god, half-brute; behind this symmetry,This versatility of heart and brainA strength abides, sustaining thought and love,Untamed, unshrinking, unpersuadable,At ease before the powers of Earth and Heaven,Equal to any, of no younger years,Calm as the greatest, haughty as the best,Of imprescriptible authority.
Down upon you I sink, and leave myself,My vain, frail self, and find repose on you,Prime Force, whether amassed through myriad yearsFrom dear accretions of dead ancestry,Or ever welling from the source of thingsIn undulation vast and unperceived,Down upon you I sink and lose myself!
My child that shouts and races on the sandYour cry restores me. Have I been with Pan,Kissing the hoofs of his goat-majesty?You come, no granite of the nether earth,Bright sea-flower rather, shining foam that flies,Yet sweet as blossom of our inland fields.
Fly, Year, not backward down blind gulfs of night,Thick with the swarm of miscreated things:Forth, flying year, through calms and broader light,Clear-eyed, strong-bosom’d year, on strenuous wings;Bearing a song more high-intoned, more holyThan the wild Swan’s melodious melancholy,More rapturous than the atom lark outflings.I follow on slow foot and unsubdued:Have I not heard thy cry across the wind?Not seen thee, Slayer of the serpent brood,—Error, and doubt, and death, and anguish blind?I follow, I shall know thee by thy plumesFlame-tipped, when on that morn of conquered tombs,I praise amidst my years the doom assigned.
Fly, Year, not backward down blind gulfs of night,Thick with the swarm of miscreated things:Forth, flying year, through calms and broader light,Clear-eyed, strong-bosom’d year, on strenuous wings;Bearing a song more high-intoned, more holyThan the wild Swan’s melodious melancholy,More rapturous than the atom lark outflings.I follow on slow foot and unsubdued:Have I not heard thy cry across the wind?Not seen thee, Slayer of the serpent brood,—Error, and doubt, and death, and anguish blind?I follow, I shall know thee by thy plumesFlame-tipped, when on that morn of conquered tombs,I praise amidst my years the doom assigned.
Fly, Year, not backward down blind gulfs of night,Thick with the swarm of miscreated things:Forth, flying year, through calms and broader light,Clear-eyed, strong-bosom’d year, on strenuous wings;Bearing a song more high-intoned, more holyThan the wild Swan’s melodious melancholy,More rapturous than the atom lark outflings.
I follow on slow foot and unsubdued:Have I not heard thy cry across the wind?Not seen thee, Slayer of the serpent brood,—Error, and doubt, and death, and anguish blind?I follow, I shall know thee by thy plumesFlame-tipped, when on that morn of conquered tombs,I praise amidst my years the doom assigned.
Thetender Sorrows of the twilight leave me,And shall I want the fanning of smooth wings?Shall I not miss sweet sorrows? Will it grieve meTo hear no cooing from soft dove-like things?Let Evening hear them! O wide Dawn uprisen,Know me all thine; and ye, whose level flightHas pierced the drear hours and the cloudy prison,Cry for the pathless spaces and the light!
Thetender Sorrows of the twilight leave me,And shall I want the fanning of smooth wings?Shall I not miss sweet sorrows? Will it grieve meTo hear no cooing from soft dove-like things?Let Evening hear them! O wide Dawn uprisen,Know me all thine; and ye, whose level flightHas pierced the drear hours and the cloudy prison,Cry for the pathless spaces and the light!
Thetender Sorrows of the twilight leave me,And shall I want the fanning of smooth wings?Shall I not miss sweet sorrows? Will it grieve meTo hear no cooing from soft dove-like things?
Let Evening hear them! O wide Dawn uprisen,Know me all thine; and ye, whose level flightHas pierced the drear hours and the cloudy prison,Cry for the pathless spaces and the light!
Widefields of air left luminous,Though now the uplands comprehendHow the sun’s loss is ultimate:The silence grows; but still to usFrom yon air-winnowing breasts elateThe tiny shrieks of glee descend.Deft wings, each moment is resignedSome touch of day, some pulse of light,While yet in poised, delicious curve,Ecstatic doublings down the wind,Light dash and dip and sidelong swerve,You try each dainty trick of flight.Will not your airy glee relentAt all? The aimless frolic cease?Know ye no touch of quelling pain,Nor joy’s more strict admonishment,No tender awe at day-light’s wane,Ye slaves of delicate caprice?Hush, once again that cry intense!High-venturing spirits have your will!Urge the last freak, prolong your glee,Keen voyagers, while still the immenseSea-spaces haunt your memory,With zests and pangs ineffable.Not in the sunshine of old woodsYe won your warrant to be gayBy duteous, sweet observances,Who dared through darkening solitudes,And ’mid the hiss of alien seas,The larger ordinance obey.
Widefields of air left luminous,Though now the uplands comprehendHow the sun’s loss is ultimate:The silence grows; but still to usFrom yon air-winnowing breasts elateThe tiny shrieks of glee descend.Deft wings, each moment is resignedSome touch of day, some pulse of light,While yet in poised, delicious curve,Ecstatic doublings down the wind,Light dash and dip and sidelong swerve,You try each dainty trick of flight.Will not your airy glee relentAt all? The aimless frolic cease?Know ye no touch of quelling pain,Nor joy’s more strict admonishment,No tender awe at day-light’s wane,Ye slaves of delicate caprice?Hush, once again that cry intense!High-venturing spirits have your will!Urge the last freak, prolong your glee,Keen voyagers, while still the immenseSea-spaces haunt your memory,With zests and pangs ineffable.Not in the sunshine of old woodsYe won your warrant to be gayBy duteous, sweet observances,Who dared through darkening solitudes,And ’mid the hiss of alien seas,The larger ordinance obey.
Widefields of air left luminous,Though now the uplands comprehendHow the sun’s loss is ultimate:The silence grows; but still to usFrom yon air-winnowing breasts elateThe tiny shrieks of glee descend.
Deft wings, each moment is resignedSome touch of day, some pulse of light,While yet in poised, delicious curve,Ecstatic doublings down the wind,Light dash and dip and sidelong swerve,You try each dainty trick of flight.
Will not your airy glee relentAt all? The aimless frolic cease?Know ye no touch of quelling pain,Nor joy’s more strict admonishment,No tender awe at day-light’s wane,Ye slaves of delicate caprice?
Hush, once again that cry intense!High-venturing spirits have your will!Urge the last freak, prolong your glee,Keen voyagers, while still the immenseSea-spaces haunt your memory,With zests and pangs ineffable.
Not in the sunshine of old woodsYe won your warrant to be gayBy duteous, sweet observances,Who dared through darkening solitudes,And ’mid the hiss of alien seas,The larger ordinance obey.
(In Scotland)
Wherehave I been this perfect summer day,—Orfortnightis it, since I rose from bed,Devour’d that kippered fish, the oatmeal bread,And mounted to this box? O bowl awaySwift stagers through the dusk, I will not say“Enough,” nor care where I have been or be,Nor know one name of hill, or lake, or lea,Or moor, or glen! Were not the clouds at playNameless among the hills, and fair as dreams?On such a day we must love things not words,And memory take or leave them as they are.On such a day! What unimagined streamsAre in the world, how many haunts of birds,What fields and flowers,—and what an evening Star!
Wherehave I been this perfect summer day,—Orfortnightis it, since I rose from bed,Devour’d that kippered fish, the oatmeal bread,And mounted to this box? O bowl awaySwift stagers through the dusk, I will not say“Enough,” nor care where I have been or be,Nor know one name of hill, or lake, or lea,Or moor, or glen! Were not the clouds at playNameless among the hills, and fair as dreams?On such a day we must love things not words,And memory take or leave them as they are.On such a day! What unimagined streamsAre in the world, how many haunts of birds,What fields and flowers,—and what an evening Star!
Wherehave I been this perfect summer day,—Orfortnightis it, since I rose from bed,Devour’d that kippered fish, the oatmeal bread,And mounted to this box? O bowl awaySwift stagers through the dusk, I will not say“Enough,” nor care where I have been or be,Nor know one name of hill, or lake, or lea,Or moor, or glen! Were not the clouds at playNameless among the hills, and fair as dreams?On such a day we must love things not words,And memory take or leave them as they are.On such a day! What unimagined streamsAre in the world, how many haunts of birds,What fields and flowers,—and what an evening Star!
(In Scotland)
Towhat wild blasts of tyrannous harmonyUprose these rocky walls, mass threatening mass,Dusk, shapeless shapes, around a desolate pass?What deep heart of the ancient hills set freeThe passion, the desire, the destinyOf this lost stream? Yon clouds that break and form,Light vanward squadrons of the joyous storm,They gather hither from what untrack’d sea?Primeval kindred! here the mind regainsIts vantage ground against the world; here thoughtWings up the silent waste of air on broadUndaunted pinion; man’s imperial painsAre ours, and visiting fears, and joy unsought,Native resolve, and partnership with God.
Towhat wild blasts of tyrannous harmonyUprose these rocky walls, mass threatening mass,Dusk, shapeless shapes, around a desolate pass?What deep heart of the ancient hills set freeThe passion, the desire, the destinyOf this lost stream? Yon clouds that break and form,Light vanward squadrons of the joyous storm,They gather hither from what untrack’d sea?Primeval kindred! here the mind regainsIts vantage ground against the world; here thoughtWings up the silent waste of air on broadUndaunted pinion; man’s imperial painsAre ours, and visiting fears, and joy unsought,Native resolve, and partnership with God.
Towhat wild blasts of tyrannous harmonyUprose these rocky walls, mass threatening mass,Dusk, shapeless shapes, around a desolate pass?What deep heart of the ancient hills set freeThe passion, the desire, the destinyOf this lost stream? Yon clouds that break and form,Light vanward squadrons of the joyous storm,They gather hither from what untrack’d sea?Primeval kindred! here the mind regainsIts vantage ground against the world; here thoughtWings up the silent waste of air on broadUndaunted pinion; man’s imperial painsAre ours, and visiting fears, and joy unsought,Native resolve, and partnership with God.
(In Scotland)
Thetenderest ripple touched and touched the shore;The tenderest light was in the western sky;—Its one soft phrase, closing reluctantly,The sea articulated o’er and o’erTo comfort all tired things; and one might pore,Till mere oblivion took the heart and eye,On that slow-fading, amber radiancyPast the long levels of the ocean-floor.A turn,—the castle fronted me, four-square,Holding its seaward crag, abrupt, intenseAgainst the west, an apparition boldOf naked human will; I stood aware,With sea and sky, of powers unowned of sense,Presences awful, vast, and uncontrolled.
Thetenderest ripple touched and touched the shore;The tenderest light was in the western sky;—Its one soft phrase, closing reluctantly,The sea articulated o’er and o’erTo comfort all tired things; and one might pore,Till mere oblivion took the heart and eye,On that slow-fading, amber radiancyPast the long levels of the ocean-floor.A turn,—the castle fronted me, four-square,Holding its seaward crag, abrupt, intenseAgainst the west, an apparition boldOf naked human will; I stood aware,With sea and sky, of powers unowned of sense,Presences awful, vast, and uncontrolled.
Thetenderest ripple touched and touched the shore;The tenderest light was in the western sky;—Its one soft phrase, closing reluctantly,The sea articulated o’er and o’erTo comfort all tired things; and one might pore,Till mere oblivion took the heart and eye,On that slow-fading, amber radiancyPast the long levels of the ocean-floor.A turn,—the castle fronted me, four-square,Holding its seaward crag, abrupt, intenseAgainst the west, an apparition boldOf naked human will; I stood aware,With sea and sky, of powers unowned of sense,Presences awful, vast, and uncontrolled.
(In Ireland)
Thesound is in my ears of mountain streams!I cannot close my lids but some grey rentOf wildered rock, some water’s clear descentIn shattering crystal, pine-trees soft as dreamsWaving perpetually, the sudden gleamsOf remote sea, a dear surprise of flowers,Some grace or wonder of to-day’s long hoursStraightway possesses the moved sense, which teemsWith fantasy unbid. O fair, large day!The unpractised sense brings heavings from a seaOf life too broad, and yet the billows range,The elusive footing glides. Come, Sleep, allayThe trouble with thy heaviest balms, and changeThese pulsing visions to still Memory.
Thesound is in my ears of mountain streams!I cannot close my lids but some grey rentOf wildered rock, some water’s clear descentIn shattering crystal, pine-trees soft as dreamsWaving perpetually, the sudden gleamsOf remote sea, a dear surprise of flowers,Some grace or wonder of to-day’s long hoursStraightway possesses the moved sense, which teemsWith fantasy unbid. O fair, large day!The unpractised sense brings heavings from a seaOf life too broad, and yet the billows range,The elusive footing glides. Come, Sleep, allayThe trouble with thy heaviest balms, and changeThese pulsing visions to still Memory.
Thesound is in my ears of mountain streams!I cannot close my lids but some grey rentOf wildered rock, some water’s clear descentIn shattering crystal, pine-trees soft as dreamsWaving perpetually, the sudden gleamsOf remote sea, a dear surprise of flowers,Some grace or wonder of to-day’s long hoursStraightway possesses the moved sense, which teemsWith fantasy unbid. O fair, large day!The unpractised sense brings heavings from a seaOf life too broad, and yet the billows range,The elusive footing glides. Come, Sleep, allayThe trouble with thy heaviest balms, and changeThese pulsing visions to still Memory.
(In Ireland)
Ruinsof a church with its miraculous well,O’er which the Christ, a squat-limbed dwarf of stone,Great-eyed, and huddled on his cross, has knownThe sea-mists and the sunshine, stars that fellAnd stars that rose, fierce winter’s chronicle,And centuries of dead summers. From his throneFronting the dawn the elf has ruled alone,And saved this region fair from pagan hell.Turn! June’s great joy abroad; each bird, flower, streamLoves life, loves love; wide ocean amorouslySpreads to the sun’s embrace; the dulse-weeds sway,The glad gulls are afloat. Grey Christ to-dayOur ban on thee! Rise, let the white breasts gleam,Unvanquished Venus of the northern sea!
Ruinsof a church with its miraculous well,O’er which the Christ, a squat-limbed dwarf of stone,Great-eyed, and huddled on his cross, has knownThe sea-mists and the sunshine, stars that fellAnd stars that rose, fierce winter’s chronicle,And centuries of dead summers. From his throneFronting the dawn the elf has ruled alone,And saved this region fair from pagan hell.Turn! June’s great joy abroad; each bird, flower, streamLoves life, loves love; wide ocean amorouslySpreads to the sun’s embrace; the dulse-weeds sway,The glad gulls are afloat. Grey Christ to-dayOur ban on thee! Rise, let the white breasts gleam,Unvanquished Venus of the northern sea!
Ruinsof a church with its miraculous well,O’er which the Christ, a squat-limbed dwarf of stone,Great-eyed, and huddled on his cross, has knownThe sea-mists and the sunshine, stars that fellAnd stars that rose, fierce winter’s chronicle,And centuries of dead summers. From his throneFronting the dawn the elf has ruled alone,And saved this region fair from pagan hell.Turn! June’s great joy abroad; each bird, flower, streamLoves life, loves love; wide ocean amorouslySpreads to the sun’s embrace; the dulse-weeds sway,The glad gulls are afloat. Grey Christ to-dayOur ban on thee! Rise, let the white breasts gleam,Unvanquished Venus of the northern sea!
(In Ireland)
Passionand song, and the adornèd hoursOf floral loveliness, hopes grown most sweet,And generous patience in the ripening heat,A mother’s bosom, a bride’s face of flowers—Knows Nature aught so fair? Witness ye PowersWhich rule the virgin heart of this retreatTo rarer issues, ye who render meetEarth, purged and pure, for gracious heavenly dowers!The luminous pale lake, the pearl-grey sky,The wave that gravely murmurs meek desires,The abashed yet lit expectance of the whole,—These and their beauty speak of earthly firesLong quenched, clear aims, deliberate sanctity,—O’er the white forehead lo! the aureole.
Passionand song, and the adornèd hoursOf floral loveliness, hopes grown most sweet,And generous patience in the ripening heat,A mother’s bosom, a bride’s face of flowers—Knows Nature aught so fair? Witness ye PowersWhich rule the virgin heart of this retreatTo rarer issues, ye who render meetEarth, purged and pure, for gracious heavenly dowers!The luminous pale lake, the pearl-grey sky,The wave that gravely murmurs meek desires,The abashed yet lit expectance of the whole,—These and their beauty speak of earthly firesLong quenched, clear aims, deliberate sanctity,—O’er the white forehead lo! the aureole.
Passionand song, and the adornèd hoursOf floral loveliness, hopes grown most sweet,And generous patience in the ripening heat,A mother’s bosom, a bride’s face of flowers—Knows Nature aught so fair? Witness ye PowersWhich rule the virgin heart of this retreatTo rarer issues, ye who render meetEarth, purged and pure, for gracious heavenly dowers!The luminous pale lake, the pearl-grey sky,The wave that gravely murmurs meek desires,The abashed yet lit expectance of the whole,—These and their beauty speak of earthly firesLong quenched, clear aims, deliberate sanctity,—O’er the white forehead lo! the aureole.
(In Switzerland)
Whatrelic of the dear, dead yesterdayShall my heart keep? The visionary lightOf dawn? Alas! it is a thing too bright,God does not give such memories away.Nor choose I one fair flower of those that swayTo the chill breathing of the waterfallIn rocky angles black with scattering spray,Fair though no sunbeam lays its coronalOf light on their pale brows; nor glacier-gleamI choose, nor eve’s red glamour; ’twas at noonResting I found this speedwell, while a stream,That knew the immemorial inland croon,Sang in my ears, and lulled me to a dreamOf English meadows, and one perfect June.
Whatrelic of the dear, dead yesterdayShall my heart keep? The visionary lightOf dawn? Alas! it is a thing too bright,God does not give such memories away.Nor choose I one fair flower of those that swayTo the chill breathing of the waterfallIn rocky angles black with scattering spray,Fair though no sunbeam lays its coronalOf light on their pale brows; nor glacier-gleamI choose, nor eve’s red glamour; ’twas at noonResting I found this speedwell, while a stream,That knew the immemorial inland croon,Sang in my ears, and lulled me to a dreamOf English meadows, and one perfect June.
Whatrelic of the dear, dead yesterdayShall my heart keep? The visionary lightOf dawn? Alas! it is a thing too bright,God does not give such memories away.Nor choose I one fair flower of those that swayTo the chill breathing of the waterfallIn rocky angles black with scattering spray,Fair though no sunbeam lays its coronalOf light on their pale brows; nor glacier-gleamI choose, nor eve’s red glamour; ’twas at noonResting I found this speedwell, while a stream,That knew the immemorial inland croon,Sang in my ears, and lulled me to a dreamOf English meadows, and one perfect June.
(A Reminiscence of 1870)
A venalsinger to a thrumming noteChanted the civic war-song, that red flowerOf melody seized in a sudden hourBy frenzied winds of change, and borne afloatA live light in the storm; and now by roteTo a cold crowd, while vague and sad the tideLoomed after sunset and the grey gulls cried,The verses quavered from a hireling throat.Wherefore should English eyes their right forbear,Or droop for smitten France? let the tossed sou,Before they turn, be quittance for the stare.O Lady, who, clear-voiced, with impulse trueTo lift that cry “To Arms!” alone would dare,My heart received a golden alms from you!
A venalsinger to a thrumming noteChanted the civic war-song, that red flowerOf melody seized in a sudden hourBy frenzied winds of change, and borne afloatA live light in the storm; and now by roteTo a cold crowd, while vague and sad the tideLoomed after sunset and the grey gulls cried,The verses quavered from a hireling throat.Wherefore should English eyes their right forbear,Or droop for smitten France? let the tossed sou,Before they turn, be quittance for the stare.O Lady, who, clear-voiced, with impulse trueTo lift that cry “To Arms!” alone would dare,My heart received a golden alms from you!
A venalsinger to a thrumming noteChanted the civic war-song, that red flowerOf melody seized in a sudden hourBy frenzied winds of change, and borne afloatA live light in the storm; and now by roteTo a cold crowd, while vague and sad the tideLoomed after sunset and the grey gulls cried,The verses quavered from a hireling throat.Wherefore should English eyes their right forbear,Or droop for smitten France? let the tossed sou,Before they turn, be quittance for the stare.O Lady, who, clear-voiced, with impulse trueTo lift that cry “To Arms!” alone would dare,My heart received a golden alms from you!
(In a Field)
A joyhas met me on this English groundI looked not for. O gladness, fields still green!Listen,—the going of a murmurous soundAlong the corn; there is not to be seenIn all the land a single pilèd sheafOr line of grain new-fallen, and not a treeHas felt as yet within its lightest leafThe year’s despair; nay, Summer saves for meHer bright, late flowers. O my Summer-timeNamed low as lost, I turn, and find you here—Where else but in our blessed English climeThat lingers o’er the sweet days of the year,Days of long dreaming under spacious skiesEre melancholy winds of Autumn rise.
A joyhas met me on this English groundI looked not for. O gladness, fields still green!Listen,—the going of a murmurous soundAlong the corn; there is not to be seenIn all the land a single pilèd sheafOr line of grain new-fallen, and not a treeHas felt as yet within its lightest leafThe year’s despair; nay, Summer saves for meHer bright, late flowers. O my Summer-timeNamed low as lost, I turn, and find you here—Where else but in our blessed English climeThat lingers o’er the sweet days of the year,Days of long dreaming under spacious skiesEre melancholy winds of Autumn rise.
A joyhas met me on this English groundI looked not for. O gladness, fields still green!Listen,—the going of a murmurous soundAlong the corn; there is not to be seenIn all the land a single pilèd sheafOr line of grain new-fallen, and not a treeHas felt as yet within its lightest leafThe year’s despair; nay, Summer saves for meHer bright, late flowers. O my Summer-timeNamed low as lost, I turn, and find you here—Where else but in our blessed English climeThat lingers o’er the sweet days of the year,Days of long dreaming under spacious skiesEre melancholy winds of Autumn rise.
LongAutumn rain;White mists which choke the vale, and blot the sidesOf the bewildered hills; in all the plainNo field agleam where the gold pageant was,And silent o’er a tangle of drenched grassThe blackbird glides.In the heart,—fire,Fire and clear air and cries of water-springs,And large, pure winds; all April’s quick desire,All June’s possession; a most fearless EarthDrinking great ardours; and the rapturous birthOf wingèd things.
LongAutumn rain;White mists which choke the vale, and blot the sidesOf the bewildered hills; in all the plainNo field agleam where the gold pageant was,And silent o’er a tangle of drenched grassThe blackbird glides.In the heart,—fire,Fire and clear air and cries of water-springs,And large, pure winds; all April’s quick desire,All June’s possession; a most fearless EarthDrinking great ardours; and the rapturous birthOf wingèd things.
LongAutumn rain;White mists which choke the vale, and blot the sidesOf the bewildered hills; in all the plainNo field agleam where the gold pageant was,And silent o’er a tangle of drenched grassThe blackbird glides.
In the heart,—fire,Fire and clear air and cries of water-springs,And large, pure winds; all April’s quick desire,All June’s possession; a most fearless EarthDrinking great ardours; and the rapturous birthOf wingèd things.
Aresorrows hard to bear,—the ruinOf flowers, the rotting of red fruit,A love’s decease, a life’s undoing,And summer slain, and song-birds mute,And skies of snow and bitter air?These things, you deem, are hard to bear.But ah, the burden, the delightOf dreadful joys! Noon opening wide,Golden and great; the gulfs of night,Fair deaths, and rent veils cast aside,Strong soul to strong soul rendered up,And silence filling like a cup.
Aresorrows hard to bear,—the ruinOf flowers, the rotting of red fruit,A love’s decease, a life’s undoing,And summer slain, and song-birds mute,And skies of snow and bitter air?These things, you deem, are hard to bear.But ah, the burden, the delightOf dreadful joys! Noon opening wide,Golden and great; the gulfs of night,Fair deaths, and rent veils cast aside,Strong soul to strong soul rendered up,And silence filling like a cup.
Aresorrows hard to bear,—the ruinOf flowers, the rotting of red fruit,A love’s decease, a life’s undoing,And summer slain, and song-birds mute,And skies of snow and bitter air?These things, you deem, are hard to bear.
But ah, the burden, the delightOf dreadful joys! Noon opening wide,Golden and great; the gulfs of night,Fair deaths, and rent veils cast aside,Strong soul to strong soul rendered up,And silence filling like a cup.
TheLady Margaret,withSusanandLucy;Lady M.at her embroidery frame, singing.
Girls, when I am gone away,On this bosom strewOnly flowers meek and pale,And the yew.Lay these hands down by my side,Let my face be bare;Bind a kerchief round the face,Smooth my hair.Let my bier be borne at dawn,Summer grows so sweet,Deep into the forest greenWhere boughs meet.Then pass away, and let me lieOne long, warm, sweet dayThere alone with face upturn’d,One sweet day.While the morning light grows broad,While noon sleepeth sound,While the evening falls and faints,While the world goes round.Susan.Whence had you this song, lady?L. Mar.Out of the air;From no one an it be not from the windThat goes at noonday in the sycamore trees.—When said the tardy page he would return?Susan.By twelve, upon this very hour.L. Mar.Look now,The sand falls down the glass with even pace,The shadows lie like yesterday’s. NothingIs wrong with the world. You are a part of it,—I stand within a magic circle charm’dFrom reach of anything, shut in from you,Leagues from my needle, and this frame I touch,Waiting till doomsday come—[Knocking heard]The messenger!Quick, I will wait you here, and hold my heartReady for death, or too much ravishment.[Exeunt both Girls.]How the little sand-hill slides and slides; how manyRed grains would drop while a man’s keen knife drawnAcross one’s heart let the red life out?Susan.[returning]Lady!L. Mar.I know it by your eyes. O do not fearTo tell all punctually: I am carved of stone.
Girls, when I am gone away,On this bosom strewOnly flowers meek and pale,And the yew.Lay these hands down by my side,Let my face be bare;Bind a kerchief round the face,Smooth my hair.Let my bier be borne at dawn,Summer grows so sweet,Deep into the forest greenWhere boughs meet.Then pass away, and let me lieOne long, warm, sweet dayThere alone with face upturn’d,One sweet day.While the morning light grows broad,While noon sleepeth sound,While the evening falls and faints,While the world goes round.Susan.Whence had you this song, lady?L. Mar.Out of the air;From no one an it be not from the windThat goes at noonday in the sycamore trees.—When said the tardy page he would return?Susan.By twelve, upon this very hour.L. Mar.Look now,The sand falls down the glass with even pace,The shadows lie like yesterday’s. NothingIs wrong with the world. You are a part of it,—I stand within a magic circle charm’dFrom reach of anything, shut in from you,Leagues from my needle, and this frame I touch,Waiting till doomsday come—[Knocking heard]The messenger!Quick, I will wait you here, and hold my heartReady for death, or too much ravishment.[Exeunt both Girls.]How the little sand-hill slides and slides; how manyRed grains would drop while a man’s keen knife drawnAcross one’s heart let the red life out?Susan.[returning]Lady!L. Mar.I know it by your eyes. O do not fearTo tell all punctually: I am carved of stone.
Girls, when I am gone away,On this bosom strewOnly flowers meek and pale,And the yew.
Lay these hands down by my side,Let my face be bare;Bind a kerchief round the face,Smooth my hair.
Let my bier be borne at dawn,Summer grows so sweet,Deep into the forest greenWhere boughs meet.
Then pass away, and let me lieOne long, warm, sweet dayThere alone with face upturn’d,One sweet day.
While the morning light grows broad,While noon sleepeth sound,While the evening falls and faints,While the world goes round.
Susan.Whence had you this song, lady?
L. Mar.Out of the air;From no one an it be not from the windThat goes at noonday in the sycamore trees.—When said the tardy page he would return?
Susan.By twelve, upon this very hour.
L. Mar.Look now,The sand falls down the glass with even pace,The shadows lie like yesterday’s. NothingIs wrong with the world. You are a part of it,—I stand within a magic circle charm’dFrom reach of anything, shut in from you,Leagues from my needle, and this frame I touch,Waiting till doomsday come—[Knocking heard]The messenger!Quick, I will wait you here, and hold my heartReady for death, or too much ravishment.
[Exeunt both Girls.]How the little sand-hill slides and slides; how manyRed grains would drop while a man’s keen knife drawnAcross one’s heart let the red life out?
Susan.[returning]Lady!
L. Mar.I know it by your eyes. O do not fearTo tell all punctually: I am carved of stone.
Stilldeep into the West I gazed; the lightClear, spiritual, tranquil as a birdWide-winged that soars on the smooth gale and sleeps,Was it from sun far-set or moon unrisen?Whether from moon, or sun, or angel’s faceIt held my heart from motion, stayed my blood,Betrayed each rising thought to quiet deathAlong the blind charm’d way to nothingness,Lull’d the last nerve that ached. It was a skyMade for a man to waste his will upon,To be received as wiser than all toil,And much more fair. And what was strife of men?And what was time?Then came a certain thing.Are intimations for the elected soulDubious, obscure, of unauthentic powerSince ghostly to the intellectual eye,Shapeless to thinking? Nay, but are not weServile to words and an usurping brain,Infidels of our own high mysteries,Until the senses thicken and lose the world,Until the imprisoned soul forgets to see,And spreads blind fingers forth to reach the day,Which once drank light, and fed on angels’ food?It happened swiftly, came and straight was gone.One standing on some aery balconyAnd looking down upon a swarming crowdSees one man beckon to him with finger-tipWhile eyes meet eyes; he turns and looks again—The man is lost, and the crowd sways and swarms.Shall such an one say “Thus ’tis proved a dream,And no hand beckoned, no eyes met my own?”Neither can I say this. There was a hint,A thrill, a summons faint yet absolute,Which ran across the West; the sky was touch’d,And failed not to respond. Does a hand passLightly across your hair? you feel it passNot half so heavy as a cobweb’s weight,Although you never stir; so felt the skyNot unaware of the Presence, so my soulScarce less aware. And if I cannot sayThe meaning and monition, words are weakWhich will not paint the small wing of a moth,Nor bear a subtile odour to the brain,And much less serve the soul in her large needs.I cannot tell the meaning, but a changeWas wrought in me; it was not the one manWho come to the luminous window to gaze forth,And who moved back into the darkened roomWith awe upon his heart and tender hope;From some deep well of life tears rose; the throngOf dusty cares, hopes, pleasures, prides fell off,And from a sacred solitude I gazedDeep, deep into the liquid eyes of Life.
Stilldeep into the West I gazed; the lightClear, spiritual, tranquil as a birdWide-winged that soars on the smooth gale and sleeps,Was it from sun far-set or moon unrisen?Whether from moon, or sun, or angel’s faceIt held my heart from motion, stayed my blood,Betrayed each rising thought to quiet deathAlong the blind charm’d way to nothingness,Lull’d the last nerve that ached. It was a skyMade for a man to waste his will upon,To be received as wiser than all toil,And much more fair. And what was strife of men?And what was time?Then came a certain thing.Are intimations for the elected soulDubious, obscure, of unauthentic powerSince ghostly to the intellectual eye,Shapeless to thinking? Nay, but are not weServile to words and an usurping brain,Infidels of our own high mysteries,Until the senses thicken and lose the world,Until the imprisoned soul forgets to see,And spreads blind fingers forth to reach the day,Which once drank light, and fed on angels’ food?It happened swiftly, came and straight was gone.One standing on some aery balconyAnd looking down upon a swarming crowdSees one man beckon to him with finger-tipWhile eyes meet eyes; he turns and looks again—The man is lost, and the crowd sways and swarms.Shall such an one say “Thus ’tis proved a dream,And no hand beckoned, no eyes met my own?”Neither can I say this. There was a hint,A thrill, a summons faint yet absolute,Which ran across the West; the sky was touch’d,And failed not to respond. Does a hand passLightly across your hair? you feel it passNot half so heavy as a cobweb’s weight,Although you never stir; so felt the skyNot unaware of the Presence, so my soulScarce less aware. And if I cannot sayThe meaning and monition, words are weakWhich will not paint the small wing of a moth,Nor bear a subtile odour to the brain,And much less serve the soul in her large needs.I cannot tell the meaning, but a changeWas wrought in me; it was not the one manWho come to the luminous window to gaze forth,And who moved back into the darkened roomWith awe upon his heart and tender hope;From some deep well of life tears rose; the throngOf dusty cares, hopes, pleasures, prides fell off,And from a sacred solitude I gazedDeep, deep into the liquid eyes of Life.
Stilldeep into the West I gazed; the lightClear, spiritual, tranquil as a birdWide-winged that soars on the smooth gale and sleeps,Was it from sun far-set or moon unrisen?Whether from moon, or sun, or angel’s faceIt held my heart from motion, stayed my blood,Betrayed each rising thought to quiet deathAlong the blind charm’d way to nothingness,Lull’d the last nerve that ached. It was a skyMade for a man to waste his will upon,To be received as wiser than all toil,And much more fair. And what was strife of men?And what was time?
Then came a certain thing.Are intimations for the elected soulDubious, obscure, of unauthentic powerSince ghostly to the intellectual eye,Shapeless to thinking? Nay, but are not weServile to words and an usurping brain,Infidels of our own high mysteries,Until the senses thicken and lose the world,Until the imprisoned soul forgets to see,And spreads blind fingers forth to reach the day,Which once drank light, and fed on angels’ food?
It happened swiftly, came and straight was gone.One standing on some aery balconyAnd looking down upon a swarming crowdSees one man beckon to him with finger-tipWhile eyes meet eyes; he turns and looks again—The man is lost, and the crowd sways and swarms.Shall such an one say “Thus ’tis proved a dream,And no hand beckoned, no eyes met my own?”Neither can I say this. There was a hint,A thrill, a summons faint yet absolute,Which ran across the West; the sky was touch’d,And failed not to respond. Does a hand passLightly across your hair? you feel it passNot half so heavy as a cobweb’s weight,Although you never stir; so felt the skyNot unaware of the Presence, so my soulScarce less aware. And if I cannot sayThe meaning and monition, words are weakWhich will not paint the small wing of a moth,Nor bear a subtile odour to the brain,And much less serve the soul in her large needs.I cannot tell the meaning, but a changeWas wrought in me; it was not the one manWho come to the luminous window to gaze forth,And who moved back into the darkened roomWith awe upon his heart and tender hope;From some deep well of life tears rose; the throngOf dusty cares, hopes, pleasures, prides fell off,And from a sacred solitude I gazedDeep, deep into the liquid eyes of Life.
Didyour eyes watch the mystic sunset splendoursThrough evenings of old summers, slow of parting,—Wistful while loveliest gains and fair surrendersHallow’d the West,—till tremulous tears came starting?Did your soul wing her way on noiseless pinionThrough lucid fields of air, and penetratedWith light and silence roam the wide dominionWhere Day and Dusk embrace,—serene, unmated?And they are past the shining hours and tender,And snows are fallen between, and winds are driven?Nay, for I find across your face the splendour,And in your wings the central winds of heaven.They reach me, those lost sunsets. UndiviningYour own high mysteries you pause and ponder;See, in my eyes the vanished light is shining,Feel, through what spaces of clear heaven I wander!
Didyour eyes watch the mystic sunset splendoursThrough evenings of old summers, slow of parting,—Wistful while loveliest gains and fair surrendersHallow’d the West,—till tremulous tears came starting?Did your soul wing her way on noiseless pinionThrough lucid fields of air, and penetratedWith light and silence roam the wide dominionWhere Day and Dusk embrace,—serene, unmated?And they are past the shining hours and tender,And snows are fallen between, and winds are driven?Nay, for I find across your face the splendour,And in your wings the central winds of heaven.They reach me, those lost sunsets. UndiviningYour own high mysteries you pause and ponder;See, in my eyes the vanished light is shining,Feel, through what spaces of clear heaven I wander!
Didyour eyes watch the mystic sunset splendoursThrough evenings of old summers, slow of parting,—Wistful while loveliest gains and fair surrendersHallow’d the West,—till tremulous tears came starting?
Did your soul wing her way on noiseless pinionThrough lucid fields of air, and penetratedWith light and silence roam the wide dominionWhere Day and Dusk embrace,—serene, unmated?
And they are past the shining hours and tender,And snows are fallen between, and winds are driven?Nay, for I find across your face the splendour,And in your wings the central winds of heaven.
They reach me, those lost sunsets. UndiviningYour own high mysteries you pause and ponder;See, in my eyes the vanished light is shining,Feel, through what spaces of clear heaven I wander!
Letthem go by—the heats, the doubts, the strife;I can sit here and care not for them now,Dreaming beside the glimmering wave of lifeOnce more,—I know not how.There is a murmur in my heart, I hearFaint, O so faint, some air I used to sing;It stirs my sense; and odours dim and dearThe meadow-breezes bring.Just this way did the quiet twilights fadeOver the fields and happy homes of men,While one bird sang as now, piercing the shade,Long since,—I know not when.
Letthem go by—the heats, the doubts, the strife;I can sit here and care not for them now,Dreaming beside the glimmering wave of lifeOnce more,—I know not how.There is a murmur in my heart, I hearFaint, O so faint, some air I used to sing;It stirs my sense; and odours dim and dearThe meadow-breezes bring.Just this way did the quiet twilights fadeOver the fields and happy homes of men,While one bird sang as now, piercing the shade,Long since,—I know not when.
Letthem go by—the heats, the doubts, the strife;I can sit here and care not for them now,Dreaming beside the glimmering wave of lifeOnce more,—I know not how.
There is a murmur in my heart, I hearFaint, O so faint, some air I used to sing;It stirs my sense; and odours dim and dearThe meadow-breezes bring.
Just this way did the quiet twilights fadeOver the fields and happy homes of men,While one bird sang as now, piercing the shade,Long since,—I know not when.
Ah, do not tell me what they mean,The tremulous brook, the scarcely stirredJune leaves, the hum of things unseen,This sovran bird.Do they say things so deep, and rare,And perfect? I can only tellThat they are happy, and can bearSuch ignorance well;Feeding on all things said and sungFrom hour to hour in this high woodArticulate in a strange, sweet tongueNot understood.
Ah, do not tell me what they mean,The tremulous brook, the scarcely stirredJune leaves, the hum of things unseen,This sovran bird.Do they say things so deep, and rare,And perfect? I can only tellThat they are happy, and can bearSuch ignorance well;Feeding on all things said and sungFrom hour to hour in this high woodArticulate in a strange, sweet tongueNot understood.
Ah, do not tell me what they mean,The tremulous brook, the scarcely stirredJune leaves, the hum of things unseen,This sovran bird.
Do they say things so deep, and rare,And perfect? I can only tellThat they are happy, and can bearSuch ignorance well;
Feeding on all things said and sungFrom hour to hour in this high woodArticulate in a strange, sweet tongueNot understood.
A noiseof swarming thoughts,A muster of dim cares, a foil’d intent,With plots and plans, and counterplans and plots;And thus along the city’s edges greyUnmindful of the darkening autumn dayWith a droop’d head I went.My face rose,—through what spell?—Not hoping anything from twilight dumb:One star possessed her heaven. Oh! all grew wellBecause of thee, and thy serene estate:Silence ... I let thy beauty make me great;What though the black night come.
A noiseof swarming thoughts,A muster of dim cares, a foil’d intent,With plots and plans, and counterplans and plots;And thus along the city’s edges greyUnmindful of the darkening autumn dayWith a droop’d head I went.My face rose,—through what spell?—Not hoping anything from twilight dumb:One star possessed her heaven. Oh! all grew wellBecause of thee, and thy serene estate:Silence ... I let thy beauty make me great;What though the black night come.
A noiseof swarming thoughts,A muster of dim cares, a foil’d intent,With plots and plans, and counterplans and plots;And thus along the city’s edges greyUnmindful of the darkening autumn dayWith a droop’d head I went.
My face rose,—through what spell?—Not hoping anything from twilight dumb:One star possessed her heaven. Oh! all grew wellBecause of thee, and thy serene estate:Silence ... I let thy beauty make me great;What though the black night come.
Master, they argued fast concerning Thee,Proved what Thou art, denied what Thou art not,Till brows were on the fret, and eyes grew hot,And lip and chin were thrust out eagerly;Then through the temple-door I slipped to freeMy soul from secret ache in solitude,And sought this brook, and by the brookside stoodThe world’s Light, and the Light and Life of me.It is enough, O Master, speak no word!The stream speaks, and the endurance of the skyOutpasses speech: I seek not to discernEven what smiles for me Thy lips have stirred;Only in Thy hand still let my hand lie,And let the musing soul within me burn.
Master, they argued fast concerning Thee,Proved what Thou art, denied what Thou art not,Till brows were on the fret, and eyes grew hot,And lip and chin were thrust out eagerly;Then through the temple-door I slipped to freeMy soul from secret ache in solitude,And sought this brook, and by the brookside stoodThe world’s Light, and the Light and Life of me.It is enough, O Master, speak no word!The stream speaks, and the endurance of the skyOutpasses speech: I seek not to discernEven what smiles for me Thy lips have stirred;Only in Thy hand still let my hand lie,And let the musing soul within me burn.
Master, they argued fast concerning Thee,Proved what Thou art, denied what Thou art not,Till brows were on the fret, and eyes grew hot,And lip and chin were thrust out eagerly;Then through the temple-door I slipped to freeMy soul from secret ache in solitude,And sought this brook, and by the brookside stoodThe world’s Light, and the Light and Life of me.It is enough, O Master, speak no word!The stream speaks, and the endurance of the skyOutpasses speech: I seek not to discernEven what smiles for me Thy lips have stirred;Only in Thy hand still let my hand lie,And let the musing soul within me burn.
Whoneeds God most? That man whose pulses playWith fullest life-blood; he whose foot dare climbTo Joy’s high limit, solitude sublimeUnder a sky whose splendour sure must slayIf Godless; he who owns the sovereign swayOf that small inner voice and still, what timeHis whole life urges toward one blissful crime,And Hell confuses Heaven, and night, the day.It is he whose faithfulness of love puts byTime’s anodyne, and that gross palliative,A Stoic pride, and bears all humanly;He whose soul grows one long desire to giveMeasureless gifts; ah! lethimquickly dieUnless he lift frail hands to God and live.
Whoneeds God most? That man whose pulses playWith fullest life-blood; he whose foot dare climbTo Joy’s high limit, solitude sublimeUnder a sky whose splendour sure must slayIf Godless; he who owns the sovereign swayOf that small inner voice and still, what timeHis whole life urges toward one blissful crime,And Hell confuses Heaven, and night, the day.It is he whose faithfulness of love puts byTime’s anodyne, and that gross palliative,A Stoic pride, and bears all humanly;He whose soul grows one long desire to giveMeasureless gifts; ah! lethimquickly dieUnless he lift frail hands to God and live.
Whoneeds God most? That man whose pulses playWith fullest life-blood; he whose foot dare climbTo Joy’s high limit, solitude sublimeUnder a sky whose splendour sure must slayIf Godless; he who owns the sovereign swayOf that small inner voice and still, what timeHis whole life urges toward one blissful crime,And Hell confuses Heaven, and night, the day.It is he whose faithfulness of love puts byTime’s anodyne, and that gross palliative,A Stoic pride, and bears all humanly;He whose soul grows one long desire to giveMeasureless gifts; ah! lethimquickly dieUnless he lift frail hands to God and live.
I said“I will find God,” and forth I wentTo seek Him in the clearness of the sky,But over me stood unendurablyOnly a pitiless, sapphire firmamentRinging the world,—blank splendour; yet intentStill to find God, “I will go and seek,” said I,“His way upon the waters,” and drew nighAn ocean marge weed-strewn and foam-besprent;And the waves dashed on idle sand and stone,And very vacant was the long, blue sea;But in the evening as I sat alone,My window open to the vanishing day,Dear God! I could not choose but kneel and prayAnd it sufficed that I was found of Thee.
I said“I will find God,” and forth I wentTo seek Him in the clearness of the sky,But over me stood unendurablyOnly a pitiless, sapphire firmamentRinging the world,—blank splendour; yet intentStill to find God, “I will go and seek,” said I,“His way upon the waters,” and drew nighAn ocean marge weed-strewn and foam-besprent;And the waves dashed on idle sand and stone,And very vacant was the long, blue sea;But in the evening as I sat alone,My window open to the vanishing day,Dear God! I could not choose but kneel and prayAnd it sufficed that I was found of Thee.
I said“I will find God,” and forth I wentTo seek Him in the clearness of the sky,But over me stood unendurablyOnly a pitiless, sapphire firmamentRinging the world,—blank splendour; yet intentStill to find God, “I will go and seek,” said I,“His way upon the waters,” and drew nighAn ocean marge weed-strewn and foam-besprent;And the waves dashed on idle sand and stone,And very vacant was the long, blue sea;But in the evening as I sat alone,My window open to the vanishing day,Dear God! I could not choose but kneel and prayAnd it sufficed that I was found of Thee.
Highinstincts, dim previsions, sacred fears,—Whence issuing? Are they but the brain’s amassedTradition, shapings of a barbarous past,Remoulded ever by the younger years,Mixed with fresh clay, and kneaded with new tears?No more? The dead chief’s ghost a shadow castAcross the roving clan, and thence at lastComes God, who in the soul His law uprears?Is this the whole? Has not the Future powersTo match the Past,—attractions, pulsings, tides,And voices for purged ears? Is all our lightThe glow of ancient sunsets and lost hours?Advance no banners up heaven’s eastern sides?Trembles the margin with no portent bright?
Highinstincts, dim previsions, sacred fears,—Whence issuing? Are they but the brain’s amassedTradition, shapings of a barbarous past,Remoulded ever by the younger years,Mixed with fresh clay, and kneaded with new tears?No more? The dead chief’s ghost a shadow castAcross the roving clan, and thence at lastComes God, who in the soul His law uprears?Is this the whole? Has not the Future powersTo match the Past,—attractions, pulsings, tides,And voices for purged ears? Is all our lightThe glow of ancient sunsets and lost hours?Advance no banners up heaven’s eastern sides?Trembles the margin with no portent bright?
Highinstincts, dim previsions, sacred fears,—Whence issuing? Are they but the brain’s amassedTradition, shapings of a barbarous past,Remoulded ever by the younger years,Mixed with fresh clay, and kneaded with new tears?No more? The dead chief’s ghost a shadow castAcross the roving clan, and thence at lastComes God, who in the soul His law uprears?Is this the whole? Has not the Future powersTo match the Past,—attractions, pulsings, tides,And voices for purged ears? Is all our lightThe glow of ancient sunsets and lost hours?Advance no banners up heaven’s eastern sides?Trembles the margin with no portent bright?
Withbrain o’erworn, with heart a summer clod,With eye so practised in each form around,—And all forms mean,—to glance above the groundIrks it, each day of many days we plod,Tongue-tied and deaf, along life’s common road.But suddenly, we know not how, a soundOf living streams, an odour, a flower crownedWith dew, a lark upspringing from the sod,And we awake. O joy and deep amaze!Beneath the everlasting hills we stand,We hear the voices of the morning seas,And earnest prophesyings in the land,While from the open heaven leans forth at gazeThe encompassing great cloud of witnesses.
Withbrain o’erworn, with heart a summer clod,With eye so practised in each form around,—And all forms mean,—to glance above the groundIrks it, each day of many days we plod,Tongue-tied and deaf, along life’s common road.But suddenly, we know not how, a soundOf living streams, an odour, a flower crownedWith dew, a lark upspringing from the sod,And we awake. O joy and deep amaze!Beneath the everlasting hills we stand,We hear the voices of the morning seas,And earnest prophesyings in the land,While from the open heaven leans forth at gazeThe encompassing great cloud of witnesses.
Withbrain o’erworn, with heart a summer clod,With eye so practised in each form around,—And all forms mean,—to glance above the groundIrks it, each day of many days we plod,Tongue-tied and deaf, along life’s common road.But suddenly, we know not how, a soundOf living streams, an odour, a flower crownedWith dew, a lark upspringing from the sod,And we awake. O joy and deep amaze!Beneath the everlasting hills we stand,We hear the voices of the morning seas,And earnest prophesyings in the land,While from the open heaven leans forth at gazeThe encompassing great cloud of witnesses.
Weby no shining Galilean lakeHave toiled, but long and little fruitfullyIn waves of a more old and bitter seaOur nets we cast; large winds, that sleep and wakeAround the feet of Dawn and Sunset, makeOur spiritual inhuman company,And formless shadows of water rise and fleeAll night around us till the morning break.Thus our lives wear—shall it be ever thus?Some idle day, when least we look for grace,Shall we see stand upon the shore indeedThe visible Master, and the Lord of us,And leave our nets, nor question of His creed,Following the Christ within a young man’s face?
Weby no shining Galilean lakeHave toiled, but long and little fruitfullyIn waves of a more old and bitter seaOur nets we cast; large winds, that sleep and wakeAround the feet of Dawn and Sunset, makeOur spiritual inhuman company,And formless shadows of water rise and fleeAll night around us till the morning break.Thus our lives wear—shall it be ever thus?Some idle day, when least we look for grace,Shall we see stand upon the shore indeedThe visible Master, and the Lord of us,And leave our nets, nor question of His creed,Following the Christ within a young man’s face?
Weby no shining Galilean lakeHave toiled, but long and little fruitfullyIn waves of a more old and bitter seaOur nets we cast; large winds, that sleep and wakeAround the feet of Dawn and Sunset, makeOur spiritual inhuman company,And formless shadows of water rise and fleeAll night around us till the morning break.Thus our lives wear—shall it be ever thus?Some idle day, when least we look for grace,Shall we see stand upon the shore indeedThe visible Master, and the Lord of us,And leave our nets, nor question of His creed,Following the Christ within a young man’s face?
Lord, I have knelt and tried to pray to-night,But Thy love came upon me like a sleep,And all desire died out; upon the deepOf Thy mere love I lay, each thought in lightDissolving like the sunset clouds, at restEach tremulous wish, and my strength weakness, sweetAs a sick boy with soon o’erwearied feetFinds, yielding him unto his mother’s breastTo weep for weakness there. I could not pray,But with closed eyes I felt Thy bosom’s loveBeating toward mine, and then I would not moveTill of itself the joy should pass away;At last my heart found voice,—“Take me, O Lord,And do with me according to Thy word.”
Lord, I have knelt and tried to pray to-night,But Thy love came upon me like a sleep,And all desire died out; upon the deepOf Thy mere love I lay, each thought in lightDissolving like the sunset clouds, at restEach tremulous wish, and my strength weakness, sweetAs a sick boy with soon o’erwearied feetFinds, yielding him unto his mother’s breastTo weep for weakness there. I could not pray,But with closed eyes I felt Thy bosom’s loveBeating toward mine, and then I would not moveTill of itself the joy should pass away;At last my heart found voice,—“Take me, O Lord,And do with me according to Thy word.”
Lord, I have knelt and tried to pray to-night,But Thy love came upon me like a sleep,And all desire died out; upon the deepOf Thy mere love I lay, each thought in lightDissolving like the sunset clouds, at restEach tremulous wish, and my strength weakness, sweetAs a sick boy with soon o’erwearied feetFinds, yielding him unto his mother’s breastTo weep for weakness there. I could not pray,But with closed eyes I felt Thy bosom’s loveBeating toward mine, and then I would not moveTill of itself the joy should pass away;At last my heart found voice,—“Take me, O Lord,And do with me according to Thy word.”