Once more the wonted road I tread, Once more dark heavens above me spread, Upon the windy down I stand, My station whence the circling land Lies mapped and pictured wide below; -- Such as it was, such e'en again, Long dreary bank, and breadth of plain By hedge or tree unbroken; -- lo! A few grey woods can only show How vain their aid, and in the sense Of one unaltering impotence, Relieving not, meseems enhance The sovereign dulness of the expanse. Yet marks where human hand hath been, Bare house, unsheltered village, space Of ploughed and fenceless tilth between (Such aspect as methinks may be In some half-settled colony), From Nature vindicate the scene; A wide, and yet disheartening view, A melancholy world. 'Tis true, Most true; and yet, like those strange smiles By fervent hope or tender thought From distant happy regions brought, Which upon some sick bed are seen To glorify a pale worn face With sudden beauty, -- so at whiles Lights have descended, hues have been, To clothe with half-celestial grace The bareness of the desert place. Since so it is, so be it still! Could only thou, my heart, be taught To treasure, and in act fulfil The lesson which the sight has brought; In thine own dull and dreary state To work and patiently to wait: Little thou think'st in thy despair How soon the o'ershaded sun may shine, And e'en the dulling clouds combine To bless with lights and hues divine That region desolate and bare, Those sad and sinful thoughts of thine! Still doth the coward heart complain; The hour may come, and come in vain; The branch that withered lies and dead No suns can force to lift its head. True! -- yet how little thou canst tell How much in thee in ill or well; Nor for thy neighbour nor for thee, Be sure, was life designed to be A draught of dull complacency. One Power too is it, who doth give The food without us, and within The strength that makes it nutritive; He bids the dry bones rise and live, And e'en in hearts depraved to sin Some sudden, gracious influence, May give the long-lost good again, And wake within the dormant sense And love of good; -- for mortal men, So but thou strive, thou soon shalt see Defeat itself is victory. So be it: yet, O Good and Great, In whom in this bedarkened state I fain am struggling to believe, Let me not ever cease to grieve, Nor lose the consciousness of ill Within me; -- and refusing still To recognise in things around What cannot truly there be found, Let me not feel, nor be it true, That, while each daily task I do, I still am giving day by day My precious things within away (Those thou didst give to keep as thine, And casting, do whate'er I may, My heavenly pearls to earthly swine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND by ANDREW MARVELL SHADOWS by VICTOR GUSTAVE PLARR CAMPS OF GREEN by WALT WHITMAN THE RAJPOOT WIFE by EDWIN ARNOLD HARMONIES OF THE EVENING by CHARLES BAUDELAIRE |