I MUST be golden for your eyes to find, And silent to the wonder of your speech, Or laughing the light laughter of the mind That flies beyond this spirit's narrow reach; Or you may seek the wistful, childish thing, Tired with the shout and clamour of its play, Serene at heart, that takes no reckoning Of joy grown constant, day on shining day. But what there is within me of dark dread Shall keep its prison. Barred against despair, At length I may know the restless captive dead, Walled from the sun and the blue living air. And in our perilous day no ghost can rise Before our trust, and our averted eyes. |