Both of them speak of something that is gone: The Pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: Not in entire forgetfulness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come, Heaven lies about us in our infancy! But He beholds the light, and whence it flows, The Youth, who daily farther from the East Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, Earth fills her lap with pleasures, of her own; The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the day, a Master o'er a Slave, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! O joy! that in our embers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed, Perpetual benediction: not indeed, For that which is most worthy to be blest; With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realized, Are yet the fountain light of all our day, Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavor, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence in a season of calm weather, Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; Which having been must ever be; In the faith that looks through death, And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, To live beneath your more habitual sway. I loved the Brooks which down their channels fret, The Clouds that gather round the setting sun That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. EXTRACT FROM "THE RECONCILER." Dora Greenwell. Our dreams are reconciled, And Thou, our Life's Interpreter, dost still Each mythic tale sublime Of strength to save, of sweetness to subdue, Wisdom's first lovers told, if read in Thee comes true. Thou, O Friend From heaven, that madest this our heart Thine own, Dost pierce the broken language of its moan — Each claim is justified; Our young illusions fail not, though they die The World that puts Thee by, It will not, of some base similitude Takes up a taunting witness, till its mood, To wrap it longer; for within the gate A dark Chimera, coiled and tangled lies, And he who answers not its question dies, Still changing form and speech, but with the same Bold guesser, hath but prest Most nigh to Thee, our noisy plaudits wrong; Our help of old, and brought Meat from this eater, sweetness from this strong. O Bearer of the key That shuts and opens with a sound so sweet |