I AM afraid To sing thee, oh Immortal Love, who know By what majestic voices long ago Thy eulogy was said. I do not dare To bring a voice which thou didst never train, To the high-soaring difficult air Of thy celestial strain. Yet how of Life to sing, and yet not tell of Love; And since thou art the source of song, And all our hearts dost move, I will essay thy praise nor fear to do thee wrong. For see, the lovers go With lingering steps and slow, By dim arcades where sunbeams scarcely reach; On sea-struck northern beach; Or breathless tropic strand, By evening breezes fanned; Or through the thick life-laden air Of some great city; or through the hush Of summer twilights 'midst the corn; When all the dying heavens glow and blush Or the young moonlight curves its crescent horn. Oh, wondrous bond that binds In one sweet concord separate minds, And from their union gives To the rapt gazer's eye A finer essence and more high, A young and winged God, who lives In purer air and seeks a loftier sky! If growing cares and lower aims should banish All thought of heavenly hopes and higher things, While we can mount upon thy soaring wings They shall not wholly vanish. Thou art the immortal part of man, the soul, Which, scorning earth's control, Lifts us from selfish thought and grovelling gains. Thou always, whilst thy power remains, Canst pierce the dull dead weight of cloud, By which our thought is bowed, And raise our clear and cleansed eyes To the eternal skies. No sting of sense it is That gives thee wings and lifts thee up to heaven. Too high art thou for this; Ethereal, pure, free from earth's grosser leaven. If ought of sense be thine, 'tis but the air, Whose weight can lift thee up to soar, Which can thy heavenward pinions bear From brute earth more and more Up to the fount of Power and Love Whence all things move. And see, the lovers go With lingering steps and slow, Over all the world together, all in all, Over all the world! Great empires fall; The onward march of Man seems spent; The nations rot in dull content; The blight of war, a bitter flood, From continent to continent, Surges in waves of blood; The light of knowledge sinks, the fire of thought burns low; There seems scant thought of God; but yet One power there is men ne'er forget, And still through every land beneath the skies, Rapt, careless, looking in each other's eyes, With lingering steps and slow, The lovers go. A pillar of light Goes evermore before their dazzled eyes Purple and golden-bright, Youth's vast horizons spread and the unbounded skies. Oh blessed dream which for awhile dost hide The sorrows of the world and leave life glorified. Oh blessed light that risest still, Young eyes and souls to fill! Linked arms and hearts aglow; Wherever man is more than brute, To this self-sacrifice our natures grow. Rapt each in each they go, and mute, Listening to the sweet song Which Love, with mystic accents, all day long Sings to them, like a hidden bird, Sweeter than e'er was seen or heard, Which from life's thick-leaved tree Sings sadly, merrily, A strange, mixed song, a changeful strain, Which rises now to joy and jollity, Now seemeth to complain; But with a sweeter music far than is Of earthborn melodies. He sees within her eyes That which his nature needs to be complete -- The grace, the pureness, the diviner sweet, Which to rude souls and strong our Life denies; The vision of his nightly dream; More pure than e'er did seem The Nymphs of old, by wood, or hill, or stream. She views in him the strong Deep note which adds the fulness to life's song; High aims and thoughts that glow She does not dream, she cannot know What turbid forces rude and wild Sully his youth's tumultuous flow; She, full of virgin fancies, pale and mild. They draw to each other, they flow to the deep as one, Together thro' all lands beneath the sun, In twin attempered streams, set side by side, So near that scarce a footpace may divide Their separate depths, and this maybe is best; Or maybe in each other lost, In calm or tempest-tost, One broad full river they roll on to the sea, One full accordant harmony, High song and deep, one perfect note; Or maybe troublous as the wintry wave, Or some hoarse accent of a tuneless throat, They know no longer peace or rest, Ill-mated, hapless, self-opprest, Till silent in the grave. Yet draw together, draw together still, Fair souls and free, fair souls and young! Still shall thy praise, Immortal Love, be sung! Thou art the Spirit which doth animate; The Universal Will, Which speeds the Race upon the ways of Fate; Which speeds it onwards, gaining strength Little by little, line on line, Till, as our hope is, risen at length To plenitude Divine, It comes to what high issue rare The Future shall prepare. |