Classic and Contemporary Poetry
DUMB, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) Poet's Biography First Line: All men are poets if they might but tell Last Line: Fares in slow narrowing cycles to the end. Subject(s): Nature | ||||||||
ALL men are poets if they might but tell The dim ineffable changes which the sight Of natural beauty works on them: the charm Of those first days of Spring, when life revives And all the world is bloom: the white-fringed green Of summer seas swirling around the base Of overhanging cliffs; the golden gleam Seen from some breezy hill, where far and wide The fields grow ripe for harvest; or the storm Smiting the leaden surf, or echoing On nightly lakes and unsuspected hills, Revealed in lurid light; or first perceived, High in mid-heaven, above the rosy clouds, The everlasting snows. And Art can move, To higher minds, an influence as great As Nature's self; when the rapt gazer marks The stainless mother folding arms divine Around the Eternal Child, or pitying love Nailed to the dreadful cross, or the white strength Of happy heathen gods, or serpent coils Binding the agonized limbs, till from their pain Is born a thing of beauty for all time. And more than Nature, more than Art can move The awakened soul -- heroic soaring deeds; When the young champion falls in hopeless fight, Striking for home; or when, by truth constrained, The martyr goes forth cheerful to his fate -- The dungeon, or the torture, or, more hard, The averted gaze of friends, the loss of love, The loneliness of soul, which truth too oft Gives to reward the faith which casts aside All things for her; or saintly lives obscure, Spent in a sweet compassion, till they gain, Living, some glow of heaven; or passionate love, Bathing our poor world in a mystic light, Seen once, then lost for ever. These can stir Life to its depths, till silence grows a load Too hard to bear, and the rapt soul would fain Speak with strange tongues which startle as they come, Like the old saints who spake at Pentecost. But we are dumb, we are dumb, and may not tell What stirs within us, though the soul may throb And tremble with its passion, though the heart Dissolve in weeping: dumb. Nature may spread Sublimest sights of beauty; Art inspire High thoughts and pure of God-like sacrifice; Yet no word comes. Heroic daring deeds Thrill us, yet no word comes; we are dumb, we are dumb, Save that from finer souls at times may rise, Once in an age, faint inarticulate sounds, Low halting tones of wonder, such as come From children looking on the stars, but still With power to open to the listening ear The Fair Divine Unknown, and to unseal Heaven's inner gates before us evermore. Ah, few and far between! The earth grows green, Art's glorious message speaks from year to year, Great deeds and high are done from day to day, But the voice comes not which has power to wake The sleeping soul within, and animate The beauty which informs them, lending speech To what before was dumb. They come, they go, Those sweet impressions spent on separate souls, Like raindrops on the endless oceanplains, Lost as they fall. The world rolls on; lives spring, Blossom, and fade; the play of life is played More vivid than of old -- a wider stage, With more consummate actors; yet the dull, Cold deeps of sullen silence swallow up The strain, and it is lost. But if we might Paint all things as they are, find voice to speak The thoughts now mute within us, let the soul Trace on its sensitive surface vividly, As does the sun our features, all the play Of passion, all the changeful tides of thought, The mystery, the beauty, the delight, The fear, the horror, of our lives, -- our being Would blaze up heavenward in a sudden flame, Spend itself, and be lost. Wherefore 'tis well This narrow boundary that hedges in The strong and weak alike. Thought could not live, Nor speech, in that pure aether which girds round Life's central dwelling-place. Only the dull And grosser atmosphere of earth it is Which vibrates to the sweet birds' song, and brings Heaven to the wondering ear. Only the stress, The pain, the hope, the longing, the constraint Of limited faculties circuling round and round The grim circumference, and finding naught Of outlet to the dread unknown beyond, Can lend the poet voice. Only the weight, The dulness of our senses, which makes dumb And hushes half the finer utterance, Makes possible the song, and modulates The too exalted music, that it falls So soft upon the listening soul, that life, Not withered by the awful harmony, Nor drunk with too much sweetness, nor struck blind By the too vivid presence of the Unknown, Fulfils its round of duty -- elevated, Not slain by too much splendour -- comforted, Not thunder-smitten -- soothed, not laid asleep -- And ever, through the devious maze of being, Fares in slow narrowing cycles to the end. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INTERRUPTED MEDITATION by ROBERT HASS TWO VIEWS OF BUSON by ROBERT HASS THE FATALIST: HOME by LYN HEJINIAN WRITING IS AN AID TO MEMORY: 17 by LYN HEJINIAN LET US GATHER IN A FLOURISHING WAY by JUAN FELIPE HERRERA IN MICHAEL ROBINS?ÇÖS CLASS MINUS ONE by HICOK. BOB BREADTH. CIRCLE. DESERT. MONARCH. MONTH. WISDOM by JOHN HOLLANDER VARIATIONS: 16 by CONRAD AIKEN UNHOLY SONNET 13 by MARK JARMAN A CAROL by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) |
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