Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE WANDERER, by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) Poet's Biography First Line: I reared my growing soul on dainty food Last Line: Living and dying, thine. Subject(s): Doubt; Socrates (470-399 B.c.); Wandering & Wanderers; Skepticism | ||||||||
I REARED my growing Soul on dainty food, I fed her with rich fruit and garnered gold Sown freely by the pious provident hands Of the wise dead of old. The long procession of the fabulous Past, Rolled by for her -- the earliest dawn of time; The seven great Days; the garden and the sword; The first red stain of crime; The fierce rude chiefs who smote, and burned, and slew, And all for God; the pitiless tyrants grand, Who piled to heaven the eternal monuments, Unchanged amid the sand; The fairy commonwealths, where Freedom first Inspired the ready hand and glowing tongue To a diviner art and sweeter song Than men have feigned or sung; The strong bold sway that held mankind in thrall, Soldier and jurist marching side by side, Till came the sure slow blight, when all the world Grew sick, and swooned, and died; Again the long dark night, when Learning dozed Safe in her cloister, and the world without Rang with fierce shouts of war and cries of pain, Base triumph, baser rout; Till rose a second dawn of light again, Again the freemen stood in firm array Behind the foss, and Pope and Kaiser came, Wondered and turned away; And then the broadening stream, till the sleek priest Aspired to tread the path the Pagan trod, And Rome fell once again, and the brave North Rose from the Church to God. All these passed by for me, till the vast tide Grew to a sea too wide for any shore; Then doubt o'erspread me, and a cold disgust, And I would look no more. For something said, "The Past is dead and gone, Let the dead bury their dead, why strive with Fate? Why seek to feed the children on the husks Their rude forefathers ate?" "For even were the Past reflected back As in a mirror, in the historic page, For us its face is strange, seeing that the Race Betters from age to age." "And if, hearing the tale we told ourselves, We marvel how the monstrous fable grew; How in these far-off years shall men discern The fictive from the true?" * * * * Then turned I to the broad domain of Art, To seek if haply Truth lay hidden there; Well knowing that of old close links connect The true things and the fair. Fair forms I found, and rounded limbs divine, The maiden's grace, the tender curves of Youth, The majesty of happy perfect years, But only half the truth. For there is more, I thought, in man, and higher, Than animal graces cunningly combined; Since oft within the unlovely frame is set The shining, flawless mind. So I grew weary of the pallid throng, Deep - bosomed maids and stalwart heroes tall. One type I saw, one earthy animal seal Of comeliness in all! But not the awful, mystical human soul -- The soul that grovels and aspires in turn -- The soul that struggles outward to the light Through lips and eyes that burn. So, from the soulless marbles, white and bare And cold, too-perfect art, I turned and sought The canvases, where Christian hands have fixed The dreams of saintly thought. Passion I found, and love, and godlike pain, The swift soul rapt by mingled hopes and fears, Eyes lit with glorious light from the Unseen, Or dim with sacred tears. But everywhere around the living tree I marked the tangled growths of fable twine, And gross material images confuse The earthly and divine. I saw the Almighty Ruler of the worlds, The one unfailing Source of Light and Love, A frowning gray-beard throned on rolling clouds, Armed with the bolts of Jove. The Eternal Son, a shapeless new-born child, Supine upon His peasant - mother's knees, Or else a ghastly victim, crushed and worn By corporal agonies. The virgin mother -- now a simple girl; Or old and blurred with tears, and wan with sighs; And now a Pagan goddess, giving back Unspiritual eyes. Till faring on what spark of heaven was there, Grew pale, then went out quite; and in its stead, Dull copies of dull common life usurped The empire of the dead. Or if sometimes, rapt in a sweet suspense, I knew a passionate yearning thrill my soul, As down long aisles from lofty quires I heard The solemn music roll; Or if at last the long-drawn symphony, After much weary wandering seemed to soar To a finer air, and subtle measures born On some diviner shore, I thought how much of poor mechanical skill, How little fire of heart, or force of brain, Was theirs who first devised or now declared That magical sweet strain; And how the art was partial, not immense, As Truth is, or as Beauty, but confined To this our later Europe, not spread out, Wide as the width of mind. * * * * So then from Art, and all its empty shows And outward-seeming truth, I turned and sought The secret springs of knowledge which lie hid Deep in the wells of thought. The hoary thinkers of the Past I knew; Whose dim vast thoughts, to too great stature grown, Flashed round as fitful lightning flashes round The black vault of the Unknown. Who, seeing that things are Many, and yet are One; That all things suffer change, and yet remain -- That opposite flows from opposite, Life and Death, Love, Hatred, Pleasure, Plain -- Raised high upon the mystical throne of life Some dim abstraction, hopeful to unwind The tangled maze of things, by one rude guess Of an untutored mind. The sweet Ideal Essences revealed, To that high poet-thinker's eyes I saw; The archetypes which underset the world With one broad perfect Law. The fair fantastic Commonwealth, too fair For earth, wherein the wise alone bore rule -- So wise that oftentimes the sage himself Shows duller than the fool; And that white soul, clothed with a satyr's form, Which shone beneath the laurels day by day, And, fired with burning faith in God and Right, Doubted men's doubts away; And him who took all knowledge for his own, And with the same swift logical sword laid bare The depths of heart and mind, the mysteries Of earth and sea and air; And those on whom the visionary East Worked in such sort, that knowledge grew to seem An ecstasy, a sudden blaze, revealed To crown the mystic's dream; Till, once again, the old light faded out, And left no trace of that fair day remain -- Only a barren method, binding down Men's thoughts with such a chain That knowledge sank self-slain, like some stout knight Clogged by his harness; nor could wit devise Aught but ignoble quibbles, subtly mixed With dull theologies. Not long I paused with these; but passed to him Who, stripping, like a skilful wrestler, cast From his strong arms the precious deadly web, The vesture of the past; And looked in Nature's eyes, and, foot to foot, Strove with her daily, till the witch at length Gave up, reluctant, to the questing mind The secret of her strength. And then the old fight, fought on modern fields, -- Whether we know by sense or inward sight -- Whether a law within, or use alone, Mark out the bounds of right -- All these were mine; and then the ancient doubt, Which scarce kept silence as this master taught The undying soul, or that one subtly probed The process of our thought, And shuddered at the dreadful innocent talk To the cicala's chirp beneath the trees -- Love poised on silver wings, love fallen and fouled By black iniquities; And laughed to scorn their quest of cosmic law, Saw folly in the Mystic and the Schools, And in the Newer Method gleams of truth Obscured by childish rules; Rose to a giant's strength, and always cried -- You shall not find the truth here, she is gone; What glimpse men had, was ages since, and these Go idly babbling on -- Jangles of opposite creeds, alike untrue, Quaint puzzles, meaningless logomachies, Efforts to scan the infinite core of things With purblind finite eyes. Go, get you gone to Nature, she is kind To reasonable worship; she alone Thinks scorn, when humble seekers ask for bread, To offer them a stone. * * * * And Nature drew me to her, and awhile Enchained me. Day by day, things strange and new Rose on me; day by day, I seemed to tread Fresh footsteps of the true. I laid life's house bare to its inmost room With lens and scalpel, marked the simple cell Which might one day be man or creeping worm, For aught that sense could tell, -- Thrust life to its utmost home, a speck of gray No more nor higher, traced the wondrous plan, The wise appliances which seem to shape The dwelling-place of man, -- Nor halted here, but thirsted still to know, And, with half-blinded eyesight, loved to pore On that scarce visible world, born of decay Or stranded on the shore. Marked how the Mother works with earth and gas, And with what subtle alchemy knows to blend The vast conflicting forces of the world To one harmonious end; And, nightly gazing on the splendid stars, Essayed in vain with reverent eye to trace The chain of miracles by which men learnt The mysteries of space; And toiled awhile with spade and hammer, to learn The dim long sequences of life, and those Unnumbered cycles of forgotten years Ere life's faint light arose; And loved to trace the strange sweet life of flowers, And all the scarce suspected links which span The gulf betwixt the fungus and the tree, And 'twixt the tree and man. Then suddenly, "What is it that I know? I know the shows and changes, not the cause; I know but long successions, which usurp The name and rank of Laws. "And what if the design I think I see Be but a pitiless order, through the long Slow wear of chance and suffering working out Salvation for the strong? "How else, if scheme there be, can I explain The cripple or the blind, the ravening jaw, The infinite waste of life, the plague, the sword, The evil, thriftless law, "Or seeming errors of design, or strange Complexities of structure, which suggest A will which sported with its power, or worked Not careful for the best?" I could not know the scheme, nor therefore spend My soul in painful efforts to conform With those who lavished life and brain to trace The story of a worm; Nor yet with those who, prizing overmuch The unmeaning jargon of their science, sought To hide, by arrogance, from God and man Their poverty of thought, And, blind with fact and stupefied by law, Los sight of the Creator, and became Dull bigots, narrowed to a hopeless creed, And priests in all but name. * * * * Thus, tired with seeking truth, and not content To dwell with those weak souls who love to feign Unending problems of the life and love Which they can ne'er explain; Nor those who, parrot-like, are proud to clothe In twenty tongues the nothing that they know; Nor those whom barren lines and numbers blind To all things else below; And half-suspecting, when the poet sang And drew my soul to his, and round me cast Fine cords of fancy, but a sleight of words, Part stolen from the past -- I thought, My life lies not with books, but men! Surely the nobler part is his who guides The State's great ship through hidden rocks and sands, Rude winds and popular tides, -- A freeman amongst freemen, -- and contrives, By years of thought and labour, to withdraw Some portion of their load from lives bent down By old abusive law! A noble task; but how to walk with those Who by fate's subtle irony ever hold The freeman's ear -- the cunning fluent knave, The dullard big with gold? And how, when worthier souls bore rule, to hold Faction more dear than Truth, or stoop to cheat, With cozening words and shallow flatteries The Solons of the street? Or, failing this, to wear a hireling sword -- Ready, whate'er the cause, to kill and slay, And float meanwhile, a gilded butterfly, My brief inglorious day -- Or, in the name of Justice, to confuse, For hire, with shameless tongue and subtle brain, Dark riddles, which, to honest minds unwarped, Were easy to explain -- Or, with keen salutary knife, to carve For hire the shrinking limb; or else to feign Wise words and healing powers, though knowing naught In face of death and pain -- Or grub all day for pelf 'mid hides and oils, Like a mole in some dark alley, to rise at last, After dull years, to wealth and ease, when all The use for them is past -- Or else to range myself with those who seek By reckless throws with chance, by trick and cheat, Swift riches lacking all the zest of toil, And only bitter-sweet. Or worst, and still for hire, to feign to hear A voice which called not, calling me to tell Now of an indolent heaven, and now, obscene Threats of a bodily hell. * * * * Then left I all, and ate the husks of sense; Oh, passionate coral lips! oh, shameful fair! Bright eyes, and careless smiles, and reckless mirth! Oh, golden rippling hair! Oh, rose-strewn feats, made glad with wine and song And laughter-lit! oh, whirling dances sweet, When the mad music faints awhile and leaves Low beats of rhythmic feet! Oh, glorious terrible moments, when the sheen Of silk, and straining limbs flash thundering by, And name and fame and honour itself, await Worse hazard than the die! All these were mine. Then, thought I, I have found The truth at last; here comes not doubt to pain; Here things are what they seem, not figments, born Of a too busy brain. But soon, the broken law avenged itself; For, oh, the pity of it! to feel the fire Grow colder daily, and the soaring soul Sunk deep in grosser mire. And oh, the pity of it! to drag down lives Which had been happy else, to ruin, and waste The precious affluence of love, which else Some humble home had graced. And oh! the weariness of feasts and wine; The jests where mirth was not, the nerves unstrung, The throbbing brain, the tasteless joys, which keep Their savour for the young. These came upon me, and a vague unrest, And then a gnawing pain; and then I fled, As one some great destruction passes, flees A city of the dead. * * * * Then, pierced by some vague sense of guilt and pain, "God help me!" I said. "There is no help in life, Only continual passions waging war, Cold doubt and endless strife!" But He is full of peace, and truth, and rest, I give myself to Him; I yearn to find What words divine have fallen from age to age Fresh from the Eternal mind. And so, upon the reverend page I dwelt, Which shows Him formless, self-contained, all-wise, Passionless, pure, the soul of visible things, Unseen by mortal eyes; Who oft across dim gulfs of time revealed, Grew manifest, then passed and left a foul Thick mist of secular error to obscure The upward gazing soul; And that which told of Opposite Principles, Of Light with Darkness warring evermore; Ah me! 'twas nothing new, I had felt the fight Within my soul before. And those wise Answers of the far-off sage, So wise, they shut out God, and can enchain To-day in narrow bonds of foolishness The subtle Eastern brain. And last, the hallowed pages dear to all, Which bring God down to earth, a King to fight With His people's hosts; or speaking awful words From out the blaze of light, -- Which tell how earthly chiefs who loved the right, Were dear to Him; and how the poet-king Sang, from his full repentant heart, the strains Sad hearts still love to sing. And how the seer was filled with words of fire, And passionate scorn and lofty hate of Ill, So pure, that we who hear them seem to hear God speaking to us still, But mixed with these, dark tales of fraud and blood, Like weeds in some fair garden; till I said, "These are not His; how shall a man discern The living from the dead? "I will go to that fair Life, the flower of lives; I will prove the infinite pity and love which shine From each recorded word of Him who once Was human, yet Divine. "Oh, pure sweet life, crowned by a godlike death; Oh, tender healing hand; oh, words that give Rest to the weary, solace to the sad, And bid the hopeless live! "Oh, pity, spurning not the penitent thief; Oh, wisdom, stooping to the little child; Oh, infinite purity, taking thought for lives By sinful stains defiled! "With thee will I dwell, with thee." But as I mused, Those pale ascetic words renewed my doubt: The cheek, which to the smiter should be turned, The offending eye plucked out. The sweet impossible counsels which may seem Too perfect for our need; nor recognise A duty to the world, not all reserved For that beyond the skies. "And was it truth, or some too reverent dream Which scorned God's precious processes of birth, And spurned aside for Him, the changeless laws Which rule all things of earth? "Or how shall some strange breach of natural law Be proof of moral truth; yet how deny That He who holds the cords of life and death Can raise up those who die? "Yet how to doubt that God may be revealed; Is He more strange, incarnate, shedding tears, Than when the unaided scheme fulfils itself Through countless painful years? "But if revealed He be, how to escape The critic who dissects the sacred page, Till God's gift hangs on grammar, and the saint Is weaker than the sage!" These warring thoughts held me, and more; but when The simple life divine shone forth no more, And the fair truth came veiled in stately robes Of philosophic lore; And 'twas the apostle spoke, and not the Christ; The scholar, not the Master; and the Church Defined itself, and sank to earthly thrones: "Surely," I said, "my search "Is vain;" and when with magical rite and spell They killed the Lord, and sought with narrow creed, Half-fancy, half of barbarous logic born, To heal the hearts that bleed; And heretic strove with heretic, and the Church Slew for the truth itself had made: again, "Can these things be of Him?" I thought, and felt The old undying pain. And yet the fierce false prophet turned to God The gross idolatrous East; and far away, Beyond the horrible wastes, the lewd knave makes A Paradise to-day. * * * * Yet deep within my being still I kept Two sacred fires alight through all the strife, -- Faith in a living God; faith in a soul Dowered with an endless life. And therefore though the world's foundations shook, I was not all unhappy; knowing well That He whose hand sustained me would not bear To leave my soul in hell. But now I looked on nature with strange eyes, For something whispered, "Surely all things pass; All life decays on earth or air or sea, -- All wither like the grass." "These are, then have been, we ourselves decline, And cease and turn to earth, and are as they: Shall our dear animals rise; shall the dead flowers Bloom in another May? "The seed springs like the herb, but not the same; And like us, not the same, our children rise; The type survives, though suffering gradual change, The individual dies. "How shall one seek to sever, e'en in thought, Body and soul; how show to doubting eyes That this returns to dust, while the other soars Deathless beyond the skies? "And if it be a lovely dream -- no more, And life is ended with our latest breath, May not the same sweet fancy have devised The Lord of life and death? "We know Him not at all, nor may conceive Beginning or yet ending. Is it more To image an Eternal World, than one Where nothing was before? "Whence came the Maker? Was He uncreate? Then why must all things else created be? Was He created? Then, the Lord I serve, Lies farther off than He. "Or if He be indeed, yet the soul dies. Why, what is He to us? not here, not here! His judgments fall, wrong triumphs here -- right sinks; What hope have we, or fear?" I could not answer, yet when others came, Affirming He was not, and bade me live In the present only, seizing unconcerned What pleasures life could give, My doubt grown fiercer, scoffed at them, "Oh fools, And blind, your joys I know; the universe Confutes you; can you see right yield to might, The better to the worse, -- "Nor burn to adjust them? If it were a dream, Would all men dream it? Can your thought conceive The end you tell of better than the life, Which all men else believe? "Or if we shrink as from a hateful voice, From mute analogies of frame and shape, Surely no other than a breath Divine Gave reason to the ape." "What made all men to call on God? What taught The soaring soul its lofty heavenward flight? What led us to discern the strait bounds set, To sever wrong from right? "Be sure, no easier is it to declare He is not than He is:" and I who sought Firm ground, saw here the same too credulous faith And impotence of thought. And when they brought me their fantastic creed, With a figment for a god -- mock ceremonies -- Man worshipping himself -- mock priests to kill The soul's high liberties, -- I spurned the folly with a curse, and turned To dwell with my own soul apart, and there Found no companion but the old doubt grown To an immense despair. * * * * Then, as a man who, on a sunny day, Feeling some trivial ache, unknown before, Goes careless from his happy home, and seeks A wise physician's door. And when he comes forth, neither heeds nor sees The joyous tide of life or smiling sky, But always, always hears a ceaseless voice Repeating "Thou shalt die." So all the world flowed by, and all my days Passed like an empty vision, and I said, "There is no help in life; seeming to live, We are but as the dead." And thus, I tossed about long time; at last Nature rebelled beneath the constant pain, And the dull sleepless care forgot itself, In frenzy of the brain. And sometimes all was darkness, unrelieved, And sometimes I would wander day and night, Through fiery long arcades, which seared my brain With flakes of blinding light. And then I lay unmoved in a gray calm; Not life nor death, and the past came to seem Thought, act, faith, doubt, things of but little worth A dream within a dream. * * * * But, when I saw my country like a cloud, Sink in the East, and the free ocean-wind Fanned life's returning flame and roused again Slow pulse and languid mind; Soon the great rush and mystery of the sea, The grisly depths, the great waves surging on, Dark with white spuming crests which threaten death, Swoop by, and so are gone. And the strong sense of weakness, as we sped -- Tossed high, plunged low, through many a furious night, And slept in faith, that some poor seaman woke To guide our course aright. All lightened something of my load, and seemed To solace me a little, for they taught, That the impalpable unknown might stretch, Even to the realms of thought. And so I wandered into many lands, And over many seas; I felt the chill Which in mid-ocean strikes on those who near The spire-crowned icy hill, And threaded fairy straits beneath the palms, Where, year by year, the tepid waters sleep; And where, round coral isles, the sudden sea Sinks its unfathomed deep. Upon the savage feverish swamp, I trod The desert sands, the fat low plains of the East; On glorious storied shores and those where man Was ever as the beast. And, day by day, I felt my frozen soul, Soothed by the healing influence of change, Grow softer, registering day by day, Things new, unknown, and strange. Not therefore, holding what it spurned before, Nor solving riddles, which before perplexed; But with new springs of sympathy, no more By impotent musings vexed. And last of all I knew the lovely land Which was most mighty, and is still most fair; Where world-wide rule and heavenward faith have left Their traces everywhere. And as from province to province I wandered on, City or country, all was fair and sweet; The air, the fields, the vines, the dark-eyed girls, The dim arcaded street; The ministers lit for vespers, in the cool; Gay bridals, solemn burials, soaring chant, Spent in high naves, gray cross, and wayside shrine, And kneeling suppliant; And painting, strong to aid the eye of faith, And sculpture, figuring awful destinies: Thin campanili, crowning lake-lit hills, And sea-worn palaces. Then, as the sweet days passed me one by one, New tides of life through body and soul were sent; And daily sights of beauty worked a calm Ineffable content. And soon, as in the spring, ere frosts are done, Deep down in earth the black roots quicken and start, I seemed to feel a spring of faith and love Stir through my frozen heart. * * * * Till one still summer eve, when as I mused By a fair lake, from many a silvery bell, Thrilled from tall towers, I heard the Angelus, Deep peace upon me fell. And following distant organ-swells, I passed Within the circuit of a lofty wall, And thence within dim aisles, wherein I heard The low chant rise and fall. And dark forms knelt upon the ground, and all Was gloom, save where some dying day-beam shone, High in the roof, or where the votive lamp Burned ever dimly on. Then whether some chance sound or solemn word Across my soul a precious influence cast, Or whether the fair presence of a faith Born of so great a Past, Smote me; the wintry glooms were past and done, And once again the Spring-time, and once more Faith from its root bloomed heavenward -- and I sank Weeping upon the floor! * * * * Long time within that peaceful home I dwelt With those grave brethren, spending silent days And watchful nights, in solemn reverent thought, Made glad by frequent praise. And the awakened longing for the Truth, With the great dread of what had been before, The ordered life, the nearer view of heaven, Worked on me more and more. So that, I lived their life of prayer and praise, Alike in summer heats and wintry snows, Pacing chill cloisters 'neath the waning stars, Long ere the slow sun rose. And speaking little, and bringing down my soul With frequent fast and vigil, saw at length Truth's face show daily clearer and more clear To failing bodily strength. For living in a mystical air, and parched With thirst for faith and truth; at last I brought The old too-active logic to enforce The current of my thought. And wishing to believe, I took for true The shameless subtleties which dare to tell How the Eternal charged one hand to hold The keys of heaven and hell. "For if a faith be given, then must there be A Church to guard it, and a tongue to speak, And an unerring mind to rule alike The strong souls and the weak." "And, because God's high purpose stands not still, But He is ever with His own, the tide Of miracle and dogma ceases not, But flows down strong and wide, "To the world's ending." So my mind fell prone, Before the Church; and teachings new and strange; The wafer, which to spirit and sense sustains Some dim incredible change -- The substance which tho' altered yet retains The self-same accidents; the Virgin Queen, Immaculate in birth, and without death, Soaring to worlds unseen -- The legends, ofttimes foolish, ofttimes fair, Of saints who set all natural laws at naught; The miracles, the portents, not the charm, Of the old Pagan thought -- These shook me not at all, who only longed To drain the healing draught of faith again, And dreaded, with a coward dread, the thought Of the old former pain. The more incredible the tale, the more The merit of belief; the more I sought To reason out the truth, I knew the more The impotence of thought. And thus the swift months passed in prayer and praise, Bringing the day when those tall gates should close, And shut me out from thought and life and all Our heritage of woes. * * * * Then, one day, when the end drew very near, Which should erase the past for ever, and I Waited impatient, longing for the hour When my old self should die; I knelt at noon, within the darkened aisle, Before a doll tawdry with rich brocade, And all ablaze with gems, the precious gifts Which pious hands had made: Nor aught of strange I saw, so changed was I, In that dull fetish; nay, heaven's gate unsealed, And the veiled angels bent before the throne, Where sat their Lord revealed. While like a flood the ecstasy of faith Surged high and higher, swift to fall at last Lower and lower, when the rapture failed And faded, and was past. Lo, a sweet sunbeam, straying through the gloom Smote me, as when the first low shaft of day Aslant the night-clouds shoots, and momently Chases the mists away. And that ideal heaven was closed, and all That reverend house turned to a darkened room, A den of magic, masking with close fumes The odours of the tomb. * * * * Then passed I forth. Again my soul was free; Again the summer sun and exquisite air Made all things smile; and life and joy and love Beamed on me everywhere. And o'er the awakened earth there went a stir, A movement, a renewal. Round the spring In the broad village place, the darkeyed girls Were fain to dance and sing For the glad time. The children played their play, Like us who play at life; light bursts of song Came from the fields, and to the village church A bridal gleamed along. Far on the endless plain, the swift steam drew A soft white riband. Down the lazy flow Of the broad stream, I marked, round sylvan bends, The seaward barges go. The brown vine-dresser, bent among his vines, Ceased sometimes from his toil to hold on high His laughing child, while his deep-bosomed wife Cheerful sat watching by. And all the world was glad, and full of life, And I grew glad with it, and quickly came To see my past life as it was, and feel A salutary shame. For what was my desire? To set aside The perfect scheme of things, to live apart A sterile life, divorced from light and love, Sole, with an empty heart. And wherefore to fatigue the Eternal ear With those incessant hymns of barren praise? Does not a sweeter sound go up to Him From well-spent toilsome days, -- And natural life, refined by honest love, And sweet unselfish liturgies of home, Heaven's will, borne onward by obedient souls, Careless of what may come? What need has He for praise? Forest and field, The winds, the seas, the plains, the mountains, praise Their Maker, with a grander litany Than our poor voices raise. What need has He of them? And looking back To those gray walls which late had shown so fair, I felt as one who from a dungeon 'scapes To free unfettered air. And half distrustful of myself, and full Of terror of what might be, once more fled, With scarce a glance behind, as one who flees A city of the dead. * * * * All through that day and night I journeyed on To the northward. With the dawn a tender rose Blushed in mid-heaven, and looking up, I saw Far off, the eternal snows. Then all day higher, higher, from the plain, Beyond the tinkling folds, beyond the fair Dense, self-sown chestnuts, then the scented pines, And then an eager air, And then the ice-fields and the cloudless heavens; And ever as I climbed, I seemed to cast My former self behind, and all the rags Of that unlovely past: The doubts, the superstitions, the regrets, The awakening; as the soul which hears the loud Archangel summon, rising, casts behind Corruption and the shroud. For I was come into a higher land, And breathed a purer air than in the past; And He who brought me to the dust of death Had holpen me at last. What then? A dream of sojourn 'mid the hills, A stir of homeward travel, swift and brief, Because the very hurry of the change Brought somewhat of relief. A dream of a fair city, the chosen seat Of all the pleasures, impotent to stay The thirsty soul, whose water-springs were laid In dear lands far away. A dream of the old crowds, the smoke, the din Of our dear mother, dearer far than fair; The home of lofty souls and busy brains, Keener for that thick air. Then a long interval of patient toil, Building the gradual framework of my art, With eyes which cared no more to seek the whole, Fast fixed upon the part. And mind, which shunned the general, absorbed In the particular only, till it saw What boundless possibilities lie for men 'Twixt matter and high law! How that which may be rules, not that which must; And absolute truth revealed, would serve to blind The soul's bright eye, and sear with tongues of flame The sinews of the mind. How in the web of life, the thread of truth Is woven with error; yet a vesture fair Comes from the loom -- a precious royal robe Fit for a god to wear. Till at the last, upon the crest of toil Sat Knowledge, and I gained a newer truth: Not the pale queen of old, but a soft maid, Filled with a tender ruth. And, ray by ray, the clear-faced unity Orbed itself forth, and lo! the noble throng Of patient souls, who sought the truth in act, And grew, through silence, strong. Till prizing union more than dissidence, And holding dear the race, I came to prove A spring of sympathy within, which swelled To a deep stream of love. And Knowledge gave me gold, and power, and fame, And honour; and Love, a clearer, surer view: Thus in calm depths I moored my weary soul Fast anchored to the True. * * * * * * * And now the past lies far away, and I Can scarce recall those vanished days again; No more the old faith stirs me, and no more Comes the old barren pain. For now each day brings its appointed toil, And every hour its grateful sum of care; And life grows sweeter, and the gracious world Shows day by day more fair. For now I live a two-fold life; my own And yet another's; and another heart Which beats to mine, makes glad the lonely world Where once I lived apart. And little lives are mine to keep unstained, Strange mystic growths, which day by day expand, Like the flowers they are, and set me in a fair Perpetual wonderland. New senses, gradual language, dawning mind, And with each day that passes, traced more strong On those white tablets, awful characters That tell of right and wrong. And what hand wrote them? One brief life declined, Went from us, and is not. Ah! what and where Is that fair soul? Surely it somewhere blooms In purer, brighter air. What took it hence, and whither? Can I bear To think, that I shall turn to a herb, a tree, A little earth or lime, nor care for these, Whatever things may be? Or shall the love and pity I feel for these End here, nor find a higher type or task? I am as God to them, bestowing more Than they deserve or ask. And shall I find no Father? Shall my being Aspire in vain for ever, and always tend To an impossible goal, which none shall reach, -- An aim without an end? Or, shall I heed them when they bid me take No care for aught but what my brain may prove? I, through whose inmost depths from birth to death, Strange heavenward currents move; Vague whispers, inspirations, memories, Sanctities, yearnings, secret questionings, And oft amid the fullest blaze of noon, The rush of hidden wings? Nay; my soul spurns it! Less it is to know Than to have faith: not theirs who cast away The mind God gave them, eager to adore Idols of baser clay. But theirs, who marking out the bounds of mind, And where thought rules, content to understand, Know that beyond its kingdom lies a dread Immeasurable land. A land which is, though fainter than a cloud, Full of sweet hopes and awful destinies: A dim land, rising when the eye is clear Across the trackless seas. O life! O death! O faithful wandering soul! O riddle of Being, hard to understand! These are Thy dreadful secrets, Lord; and we The creatures of Thy hand. O'er wells of consciousness, too deep for thought, Thou broodest always, awful Power Divine; Thine are we still, the creatures of Thy hand, Living and dying, Thine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BIRTH-DUES by ROBINSON JEFFERS SECOND NOETIC HYMN by ROBERT KELLY WALLACE STEVENS' LETTERS by ROBERT BLY IT COULDN'T BE DONE by EDGAR ALBERT GUEST A CAROL by LEWIS MORRIS (1833-1907) |
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