Poems: Third Series | Page 3

size.
I wonder if they bore it long,?Or did it just begin??I could not tell the date of mine,?It feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live,?And if they have to try,?And whether, could they choose between,?They would not rather die.
I wonder if when years have piled --?Some thousands -- on the cause?Of early hurt, if such a lapse?Could give them any pause;
Or would they go on aching still?Through centuries above,?Enlightened to a larger pain?By contrast with the love.
The grieved are many, I am told;?The reason deeper lies, --?Death is but one and comes but once,?And only nails the eyes.
There's grief of want, and grief of cold, --?A sort they call 'despair;'?There's banishment from native eyes,?In sight of native air.
And though I may not guess the kind?Correctly, yet to me?A piercing comfort it affords?In passing Calvary,
To note the fashions of the cross,?Of those that stand alone,?Still fascinated to presume?That some are like my own.
XXXIV.
I have a king who does not speak;?So, wondering, thro' the hours meek?I trudge the day away,--?Half glad when it is night and sleep,?If, haply, thro' a dream to peep?In parlors shut by day.
And if I do, when morning comes,?It is as if a hundred drums?Did round my pillow roll,?And shouts fill all my childish sky,?And bells keep saying 'victory'?From steeples in my soul!
And if I don't, the little Bird?Within the Orchard is not heard,?And I omit to pray,?'Father, thy will be done' to-day,?For my will goes the other way,?And it were perjury!
XXXV.
DISENCHANTMENT.
It dropped so low in my regard?I heard it hit the ground,?And go to pieces on the stones?At bottom of my mind;
Yet blamed the fate that fractured, less?Than I reviled myself?For entertaining plated wares?Upon my silver shelf.
XXXVI.
LOST FAITH.
To lose one's faith surpasses?The loss of an estate,?Because estates can be?Replenished, -- faith cannot.
Inherited with life,?Belief but once can be;?Annihilate a single clause,?And Being's beggary.
XXXVII.
LOST JOY.
I had a daily bliss?I half indifferent viewed,?Till sudden I perceived it stir, --?It grew as I pursued,
Till when, around a crag,?It wasted from my sight,?Enlarged beyond my utmost scope,?I learned its sweetness right.
XXXVIII.
I worked for chaff, and earning wheat?Was haughty and betrayed.?What right had fields to arbitrate?In matters ratified?
I tasted wheat, -- and hated chaff,?And thanked the ample friend;?Wisdom is more becoming viewed?At distance than at hand.
XXXIX.
Life, and Death, and Giants?Such as these, are still.?Minor apparatus, hopper of the mill,?Beetle at the candle,?Or a fife's small fame,?Maintain by accident?That they proclaim.
XL.
ALPINE GLOW.
Our lives are Swiss, --?So still, so cool,?Till, some odd afternoon,?The Alps neglect their curtains,?And we look farther on.
Italy stands the other side,?While, like a guard between,?The solemn Alps,?The siren Alps,?Forever intervene!
XLI.
REMEMBRANCE.
Remembrance has a rear and front, --?'T is something like a house;?It has a garret also?For refuse and the mouse,
Besides, the deepest cellar?That ever mason hewed;?Look to it, by its fathoms?Ourselves be not pursued.
XLII.
To hang our head ostensibly,?And subsequent to find?That such was not the posture?Of our immortal mind,
Affords the sly presumption?That, in so dense a fuzz,?You, too, take cobweb attitudes?Upon a plane of gauze!
XLIII.
THE BRAIN.
The brain is wider than the sky,?For, put them side by side,?The one the other will include?With ease, and you beside.
The brain is deeper than the sea,?For, hold them, blue to blue,?The one the other will absorb,?As sponges, buckets do.
The brain is just the weight of God,?For, lift them, pound for pound,?And they will differ, if they do,?As syllable from sound.
XLIV.
The bone that has no marrow;?What ultimate for that??It is not fit for table,?For beggar, or for cat.
A bone has obligations,?A being has the same;?A marrowless assembly?Is culpabler than shame.
But how shall finished creatures?A function fresh obtain? --?Old Nicodemus' phantom?Confronting us again!
XLV.
THE PAST.
The past is such a curious creature,?To look her in the face?A transport may reward us,?Or a disgrace.
Unarmed if any meet her,?I charge him, fly!?Her rusty ammunition?Might yet reply!
XLVI.
To help our bleaker parts?Salubrious hours are given,?Which if they do not fit for earth?Drill silently for heaven.
XLVII.
What soft, cherubic creatures?These gentlewomen are!?One would as soon assault a plush?Or violate a star.
Such dimity convictions,?A horror so refined?Of freckled human nature,?Of Deity ashamed, --
It's such a common glory,?A fisherman's degree!?Redemption, brittle lady,?Be so, ashamed of thee.
XLVIII.
DESIRE.
Who never wanted, -- maddest joy?Remains to him unknown:?The banquet of abstemiousness?Surpasses that of wine.
Within its hope, though yet ungrasped?Desire's perfect goal,?No nearer, lest reality?Should disenthrall thy soul.
XLIX.
PHILOSOPHY.
It might be easier?To fail with land in sight,?Than gain my blue peninsula?To perish of delight.
L.
POWER.
You cannot put a fire out;?A thing that can ignite?Can go, itself, without a fan?Upon the slowest night.
You cannot fold a flood?And put it in a drawer, --?Because the winds would find it out,?And tell your cedar floor.
LI.
A modest lot, a fame petite,?A brief campaign of sting and sweet?Is plenty! Is enough!?A sailor's business is the shore,?A soldier's -- balls. Who asketh more?Must seek the neighboring life!
LII.
Is bliss, then, such abyss?I must not put my foot