IDIM WISDOMS
NIGHT HAS ITS FEAR
Nighthas its fear:As the slow dusk advances, and the dayFades out in fire along the starry way,The ancient doubt draws near.Vague shapes ofdread—Soft owl, or moth, and timid, twitteringthings—Move through the growing dark; on furtive wingsThe bat flits overhead.And in the houseThe death-watch ticks, the dust of time is stirredWith timorous footfalls, in the night is heardThe gnawing of the mouse.Through the old roomWhat phantoms throng, what shapes that to and froTremble, and lips that laughed here longago—Gone back into the gloom!A whip-poor-willBleakly across the baleful country criesFrom a blurred mouth; and from the west repliesEcho—and all is still.Now from her shell,Her body’s prison, with the ancient doubtAnd terror stricken, the scared soul looks out,Asking if all be well.Great kings have been,Poets, and mighty prophets—shapes have criedAbout the world, or moved in mournful pride;And are no longer seen.From many landsTheir plaint was lifted; from how many a shoreSorrows have wailed, that are not any more!They sleep with folded hands.They have their day:Their cry is loud about the earth, who comeTo the one end; the singing lips grow dumbAlways in the one way.Though they implore,Brief is the plea, inflexible the fate!Silence has the last word; and then—the greatSilence, forevermore.Pondering these,The fretful spirit in bewildermentQuickens with a vague doubt, and, not content,Broods—and is ill at ease.Her being isThroned on so frail a pulse; such fleeting breathBears up her dream across the gulf of deathAnd the obscure abyss.Always she hearsThe hurtling chariots of the hurrying blood,Her shuttling breath that in the solitudeWeaves the one self she wears.Now first the vastVeil over heaven is rent, and bares the wholeShining Reality; whereat the soulSickens, and is aghast!Darkness revealsThe tragic truth; her will sinks hopeless wingsBefore the inexorable Fact of things,Humbling the dread she feels.With the old AwesConfronted and the flaming Mystery,She may not speak; but pondering, suddenlyGrows silent, and withdraws.She may not bearThat sight: the spangled heavens, from east to west,Stretch out too wide the confines of the breast,Straining in wonder there.Upon what BrowOf awful eminence—O thought thatstuns!—Is laid that chaplet of a million suns,Upon what Forehead now?Who was it wroughtThis universal glory all around,Of glittering worlds forever withoutbound?—Great Poet, what a Thought!It is a WordUnutterable that is written there;The spirit, gazing, is one voiceless prayer,Careless if it be heard.Her thoughts ascend,Star beyond star, height beyond aching heightUpward, in adoration infinite,Forever, without end.Soshallit be!Till heaven yield her sceptre; till the throneOf night be shaken, and the Face be knownBeyond eternity:Till God divideAnd rend asunder the embroidered hemOf darkness; till the starry diademAnd crown be set aside!
Nighthas its fear:As the slow dusk advances, and the dayFades out in fire along the starry way,The ancient doubt draws near.Vague shapes ofdread—Soft owl, or moth, and timid, twitteringthings—Move through the growing dark; on furtive wingsThe bat flits overhead.And in the houseThe death-watch ticks, the dust of time is stirredWith timorous footfalls, in the night is heardThe gnawing of the mouse.Through the old roomWhat phantoms throng, what shapes that to and froTremble, and lips that laughed here longago—Gone back into the gloom!A whip-poor-willBleakly across the baleful country criesFrom a blurred mouth; and from the west repliesEcho—and all is still.Now from her shell,Her body’s prison, with the ancient doubtAnd terror stricken, the scared soul looks out,Asking if all be well.Great kings have been,Poets, and mighty prophets—shapes have criedAbout the world, or moved in mournful pride;And are no longer seen.From many landsTheir plaint was lifted; from how many a shoreSorrows have wailed, that are not any more!They sleep with folded hands.They have their day:Their cry is loud about the earth, who comeTo the one end; the singing lips grow dumbAlways in the one way.Though they implore,Brief is the plea, inflexible the fate!Silence has the last word; and then—the greatSilence, forevermore.Pondering these,The fretful spirit in bewildermentQuickens with a vague doubt, and, not content,Broods—and is ill at ease.Her being isThroned on so frail a pulse; such fleeting breathBears up her dream across the gulf of deathAnd the obscure abyss.Always she hearsThe hurtling chariots of the hurrying blood,Her shuttling breath that in the solitudeWeaves the one self she wears.Now first the vastVeil over heaven is rent, and bares the wholeShining Reality; whereat the soulSickens, and is aghast!Darkness revealsThe tragic truth; her will sinks hopeless wingsBefore the inexorable Fact of things,Humbling the dread she feels.With the old AwesConfronted and the flaming Mystery,She may not speak; but pondering, suddenlyGrows silent, and withdraws.She may not bearThat sight: the spangled heavens, from east to west,Stretch out too wide the confines of the breast,Straining in wonder there.Upon what BrowOf awful eminence—O thought thatstuns!—Is laid that chaplet of a million suns,Upon what Forehead now?Who was it wroughtThis universal glory all around,Of glittering worlds forever withoutbound?—Great Poet, what a Thought!It is a WordUnutterable that is written there;The spirit, gazing, is one voiceless prayer,Careless if it be heard.Her thoughts ascend,Star beyond star, height beyond aching heightUpward, in adoration infinite,Forever, without end.Soshallit be!Till heaven yield her sceptre; till the throneOf night be shaken, and the Face be knownBeyond eternity:Till God divideAnd rend asunder the embroidered hemOf darkness; till the starry diademAnd crown be set aside!
Nighthas its fear:As the slow dusk advances, and the dayFades out in fire along the starry way,The ancient doubt draws near.
Nighthas its fear:
As the slow dusk advances, and the day
Fades out in fire along the starry way,
The ancient doubt draws near.
Vague shapes ofdread—Soft owl, or moth, and timid, twitteringthings—Move through the growing dark; on furtive wingsThe bat flits overhead.
Vague shapes ofdread—
Soft owl, or moth, and timid, twitteringthings—
Move through the growing dark; on furtive wings
The bat flits overhead.
And in the houseThe death-watch ticks, the dust of time is stirredWith timorous footfalls, in the night is heardThe gnawing of the mouse.
And in the house
The death-watch ticks, the dust of time is stirred
With timorous footfalls, in the night is heard
The gnawing of the mouse.
Through the old roomWhat phantoms throng, what shapes that to and froTremble, and lips that laughed here longago—Gone back into the gloom!
Through the old room
What phantoms throng, what shapes that to and fro
Tremble, and lips that laughed here longago—
Gone back into the gloom!
A whip-poor-willBleakly across the baleful country criesFrom a blurred mouth; and from the west repliesEcho—and all is still.
A whip-poor-will
Bleakly across the baleful country cries
From a blurred mouth; and from the west replies
Echo—and all is still.
Now from her shell,Her body’s prison, with the ancient doubtAnd terror stricken, the scared soul looks out,Asking if all be well.
Now from her shell,
Her body’s prison, with the ancient doubt
And terror stricken, the scared soul looks out,
Asking if all be well.
Great kings have been,Poets, and mighty prophets—shapes have criedAbout the world, or moved in mournful pride;And are no longer seen.
Great kings have been,
Poets, and mighty prophets—shapes have cried
About the world, or moved in mournful pride;
And are no longer seen.
From many landsTheir plaint was lifted; from how many a shoreSorrows have wailed, that are not any more!They sleep with folded hands.
From many lands
Their plaint was lifted; from how many a shore
Sorrows have wailed, that are not any more!
They sleep with folded hands.
They have their day:Their cry is loud about the earth, who comeTo the one end; the singing lips grow dumbAlways in the one way.
They have their day:
Their cry is loud about the earth, who come
To the one end; the singing lips grow dumb
Always in the one way.
Though they implore,Brief is the plea, inflexible the fate!Silence has the last word; and then—the greatSilence, forevermore.
Though they implore,
Brief is the plea, inflexible the fate!
Silence has the last word; and then—the great
Silence, forevermore.
Pondering these,The fretful spirit in bewildermentQuickens with a vague doubt, and, not content,Broods—and is ill at ease.
Pondering these,
The fretful spirit in bewilderment
Quickens with a vague doubt, and, not content,
Broods—and is ill at ease.
Her being isThroned on so frail a pulse; such fleeting breathBears up her dream across the gulf of deathAnd the obscure abyss.
Her being is
Throned on so frail a pulse; such fleeting breath
Bears up her dream across the gulf of death
And the obscure abyss.
Always she hearsThe hurtling chariots of the hurrying blood,Her shuttling breath that in the solitudeWeaves the one self she wears.
Always she hears
The hurtling chariots of the hurrying blood,
Her shuttling breath that in the solitude
Weaves the one self she wears.
Now first the vastVeil over heaven is rent, and bares the wholeShining Reality; whereat the soulSickens, and is aghast!
Now first the vast
Veil over heaven is rent, and bares the whole
Shining Reality; whereat the soul
Sickens, and is aghast!
Darkness revealsThe tragic truth; her will sinks hopeless wingsBefore the inexorable Fact of things,Humbling the dread she feels.
Darkness reveals
The tragic truth; her will sinks hopeless wings
Before the inexorable Fact of things,
Humbling the dread she feels.
With the old AwesConfronted and the flaming Mystery,She may not speak; but pondering, suddenlyGrows silent, and withdraws.
With the old Awes
Confronted and the flaming Mystery,
She may not speak; but pondering, suddenly
Grows silent, and withdraws.
She may not bearThat sight: the spangled heavens, from east to west,Stretch out too wide the confines of the breast,Straining in wonder there.
She may not bear
That sight: the spangled heavens, from east to west,
Stretch out too wide the confines of the breast,
Straining in wonder there.
Upon what BrowOf awful eminence—O thought thatstuns!—Is laid that chaplet of a million suns,Upon what Forehead now?
Upon what Brow
Of awful eminence—O thought thatstuns!—
Is laid that chaplet of a million suns,
Upon what Forehead now?
Who was it wroughtThis universal glory all around,Of glittering worlds forever withoutbound?—Great Poet, what a Thought!
Who was it wrought
This universal glory all around,
Of glittering worlds forever withoutbound?—
Great Poet, what a Thought!
It is a WordUnutterable that is written there;The spirit, gazing, is one voiceless prayer,Careless if it be heard.
It is a Word
Unutterable that is written there;
The spirit, gazing, is one voiceless prayer,
Careless if it be heard.
Her thoughts ascend,Star beyond star, height beyond aching heightUpward, in adoration infinite,Forever, without end.
Her thoughts ascend,
Star beyond star, height beyond aching height
Upward, in adoration infinite,
Forever, without end.
Soshallit be!Till heaven yield her sceptre; till the throneOf night be shaken, and the Face be knownBeyond eternity:
Soshallit be!
Till heaven yield her sceptre; till the throne
Of night be shaken, and the Face be known
Beyond eternity:
Till God divideAnd rend asunder the embroidered hemOf darkness; till the starry diademAnd crown be set aside!
Till God divide
And rend asunder the embroidered hem
Of darkness; till the starry diadem
And crown be set aside!