Yes, life! though it seems half a death, When the flowers of the glen Bend over, with color and breath, Till we tremble again; Till we shudder with exquisite pain Their beauty to see, While our dumb hope, through fibre and vein, Climbs up to be free. No blossom -- scarce leaf -- on the ground, Vague fruitage we bear, -- Point upward, reach fingers around, In a tender despair. And we pencil rare patterns of grace Men's footsteps about: A charm in our wilderness-place They find us, no doubt. Yet why must this possible more Forever be less? The unattained flower in the spore Hints a human distress. We fern-folk with grave whispers crowd The solemn wood-gloom, Or weave over clods our green cloud Of nebulous bloom. To fashion our life as a flower, In weird curves we reach, -- O man, with your beautiful power Of presence and speech! Yet the heart of the human must grope Through its nobler despair; For it can but look upward, and hope All perfection to share. And to dream of the sweetness we miss Is not wholly in vain; For the soul can be glad in a bliss It may never attain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOST ILLUSIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ONLY OF THEE AND ME by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS; OR, THE BRITISH SOLDIER IN CHINA by FRANCIS HASTINGS CHARLES DOYLE THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 27 by OMAR KHAYYAM LUCY (5) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH |