SIGHT.
The world is bright with beauty, and its days Are filled with music; could we only know True ends from false, and lofty things from low; Could we but tear away the walls that graze Our very elbows in life's frosty ways; Behold the width beyond us with its flow, Its knowledge and its murmur and its glow, Where doubt itself is but a golden haze.
Ah brothers, still upon our pathway lies The shadow of dim weariness and fear, Yet if we could but lift our earthward eyes To see, and open our dull ears to hear, Then should the wonder of this world draw near And life's innumerable harmonies.
AN OLD LESSON FROM THE FIELDS.
Even as I watched the daylight how it sped From noon till eve, and saw the light wind pass In long pale waves across the flashing grass, And heard through all my dreams, wherever led, The thin cicada singing overhead, I felt what joyance all this nature has, And saw myself made clear as in a glass, How that my soul was for the most part dead.
Oh, light, I cried, and, heaven, with all your blue, Oh, earth, with all your sunny fruitfulness, And ye, tall lilies, of the wind-vexed field, What power and beauty life indeed might yield, Could we but cast away its conscious stress, Simple of heart, becoming even as you.
WINTER-THOUGHT.
The wind-swayed daisies, that on every side Throng the wide fields in whispering companies, Serene and gently smiling like the eyes Of tender children long beatified, The delicate thought-wrapped buttercups that glide Like sparks of fire above the wavering grass, And swing and toss with all the airs that pass, Yet seem so peaceful, so preoccupied;
These are the emblems of pure pleasures flown, I scarce can think of pleasure without these.
Even to dream of them is to disown The cold forlorn midwinter reveries, Lulled with the perfume of old hopes new-blown, No longer dreams, but dear realities.
DEEDS.
'Tis well with words, oh masters, ye have sought To turn men's yearning to the great and true, Yet first take heed to what your own hands do; By deeds not words the souls of men are taught; Good lives alone are fruitful; they are caught Into the fountain of all life (wherethrough Men's souls that drink are broken or made new) Like drops of heavenly elixir, fraught With the clear essence of eternal youth.
Even one little deed of weak untruth Is like a drop of quenchless venom cast, A liquid thread, into life's feeding stream, Woven forever with its crystal gleam, Bearing the seed of death and woe at last.
ASPIRATION.
Oh deep-eyed brothers was there ever here, Or is there now, or shall there sometime be Harbour or any rest for such as we, Lone thin-cheeked mariners, that aye must steer Our whispering barks with such keen hope and fear Toward misty bournes across that coastless sea, Whose winds are songs that ever gust and flee, Whose shores are dreams that tower but come not near.
Yet we perchance, for all that flesh and mind Of many ills be marked with many a trace, Shall find this life more sweet more strangely kind, Than they of that dim-hearted earthly race, Who creep firm-nailed upon the earth's hard face, And hear nor see not, being deaf and blind.
THE POETS.
Half god, half brute, within the self-same shell, Changers with every hour from dawn till even, Who dream with angels in the gate of heaven, And skirt with curious eyes the brinks of hell, Children of Pan, whom some, the few, love well, But most draw back, and know not what to say, Poor shining angels, whom the hoofs betray, Whose pinions frighten with their goatish smell.
Half brutish, half divine, but all of earth, Half-way 'twixt hell and heaven, near to man, The whole world's tangle gathered in one span, Full of this human torture and this mirth: Life with its hope and error, toil and bliss, Earth-born, earth-reared, ye know it as it is.
THE TRUTH.
Friend, though thy soul should burn thee, yet be still.
Thoughts were not meant for strife, nor tongues for swords.
He that sees clear is gentlest of his words, And that's not truth that hath the heart to kill.
The whole world's thought shall not one truth fulfil.
Dull in our age, and passionate in youth, No mind of man hath found the perfect truth, Nor shalt thou find it; therefore, friend, be still.
Watch and be still, nor hearken to the fool, The babbler of consistency and rule: Wisest is he, who, never quite secure, Changes his thoughts for better day by day: To-morrow some new light will shine, be sure, And thou shalt see thy thought another way.
THE MARTYRS.
Oh ye, who found in men's brief ways no sign Of strength or help, so cast them forth, and threw Your whole souls up to one ye deemed most true, Nor failed nor doubted but held fast your line, Seeing before you that divine face shine; Shall we not mourn, when yours are now so few, Those sterner days, when all men yearned to you, White souls whose beauty made their world divine:
Yet still across life's tangled storms we see, Following the cross, your pale procession led, One hope, one end, all others sacrificed, Self-abnegation, love, humility, Your faces shining toward the bended head, The wounded hands and patient feet of Christ.
A NIGHT OF STORM.
Oh city, whom grey stormy hands have sown With restless drift, scarce broken now of any, Out of the dark thy windows dim and many Gleam red across the storm. Sound is there none, Save evermore the fierce wind's sweep and moan, From whose grey hands the keen white snow is shaken In desperate gusts, that fitfully lull and waken, Dense as night's darkness round thy towers of stone.
Darkling and strange art thou thus vexed and chidden; More dark and strange thy veiled agony, City of storm, in whose grey heart are hidden What stormier woes, what lives that groan and beat, Stern and thin-cheeked, against time's heavier sleet, Rude fates, hard hearts, and prisoning poverty.
THE RAILWAY STATION.
The darkness brings no quiet here, the light No waking: ever on my blinded brain The flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain, The engines' scream, the hiss and thunder smite: I see the hurrying crowds, the clasp, the flight, Faces that touch, eyes that are dim with pain: I see the hoarse wheels turn, and the great train Move labouring out into the bourneless night.
So many souls within its dim recesses, So many bright, so many mournful eyes: Mine eyes that watch grow fixed with dreams and guesses; What threads of life, what hidden histories, What sweet or passionate dreams and dark distresses, What unknown thoughts, what various agonies!