Classic and Contemporary Poetry
A CANTICLE OF TIME, by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL Poet's Biography First Line: Hours of grieving, / hours of thought Last Line: Saith the soul. Subject(s): Life; Time | ||||||||
HOURS of grieving, Hours of thought; Hours of believing, Hours of naught. Hours when the thieving Fingers of doubt steal Heart riches, faith bought. Hours of spirit dearth, Earthy, and born of earth, When the racked universe Is as a hell, or worse. Hours when the curtain, furled Backward, revealed to us Sorrowful sin-gulfs Self had concealed from us. Hours of wretchedness; Palsies that blind. Hours none else can guess, When the dumb mind Faints, and heart wisdom Is all that we find. Hours when the cloud That hides the unknown, A cumbering shroud, About us is thrown. Hours that seem to part Goodness and God. Hours of fierce yearning, When fruit of love's earning Is shred from the heart. Hours when no angel Hovers o'er life. Hours when no Christ-God Pities our strife. Yea, such is life! Slowly the hours Gather to years; They deal with our tears That grief be not vain, Gently as flowers Deal with the rain. Slowly the hours Gather to years, Sowing with roses The graves of our fears. Lo! the dark crosses Of torture's completeness Mistily fade into Symbols of sweetness, And behold it is evening. Swift through the grass Shuttles of shadow Silently pass, Weaving at last Tapestries sombre, Solemn and vast, And behold it is night! Silence profound, Solitude vacant Of touch and of sound Thy being doth bound. This is death's loneliness, Answerless, pitiless! What of thee was king, Let it crownless descend From its tottering throne; Lo! thou art alone, And behold, 't is the end! What sayeth the soul? "God wasteth naught. Thinkest, in vain He sowed in thy childhood Thought-seed in the brain, And the joy to create, Like his own joy, and will, Like a fragment of fate For the godlike control Of the heaven of thy angels, The loves of thy soul? Ay, strong for the rule Of devils that tempt thee, Of demons that fool? Shall so much of Him Merely perish in haste, Just stumble, and die, And Death be a jester's mad riddle Without a reply? And Life naught but waste? Behold, it is day," Saith the soul. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ELEVEN EYES: FINAL SECTION by LYN HEJINIAN THE FATALIST: COME OCTOBER by LYN HEJINIAN THE FATALIST: HOME by LYN HEJINIAN THE FATALIST: TIME IS FILLED by LYN HEJINIAN SLOWLY: I FREQUENTLY SLOWLY WISH by LYN HEJINIAN ALL THE DIFFICULT HOURS AND MINUTES by JANE HIRSHFIELD A DAY IS VAST by JANE HIRSHFIELD FROM THIS HEIGHT by TONY HOAGLAND A DECANTER OF MADEIRA, AGED 86, TO GEORGE BANCROFT, AGED 86 by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN [MARCH 8, 1862] by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL |
|