Songs before Sunrise | Page 4

which was cold shall take fire,
That which was bitter be sweet.
It was wrought not with hands to smite,
Nor hewn after swordsmiths' fashion,
Nor tempered on anvil of steel;?But with visions and dreams of the night,
But with hope, and the patience of passion,
And the signet of love for a seal.
Be it witness, till one more strong,
Till a loftier lyre, till a rarer
Lute praise her better than I,?Be it witness before you, my song,
That I knew her, the world's banner-bearer,
Who shall cry the republican cry.
Yea, even she as at first,
Yea, she alone and none other,
Shall cast down, shall build up, shall bring home;?Slake earth's hunger and thirst,
Lighten, and lead as a mother;
First name of the world's names, Rome.
PRELUDE
Between the green bud and the red?Youth sat and sang by Time, and shed
From eyes and tresses flowers and tears,?From heart and spirit hopes and fears,?Upon the hollow stream whose bed
Is channelled by the foamless years;?And with the white the gold-haired head
Mixed running locks, and in Time's ears?Youth's dreams hung singing, and Time's truth?Was half not harsh in the ears of Youth.
Between the bud and the blown flower?Youth talked with joy and grief an hour,
With footless joy and wingless grief?And twin-born faith and disbelief?Who share the seasons to devour;
And long ere these made up their sheaf?Felt the winds round him shake and shower
The rose-red and the blood-red leaf,?Delight whose germ grew never grain,?And passion dyed in its own pain.
Then he stood up, and trod to dust?Fear and desire, mistrust and trust,
And dreams of bitter sleep and sweet,?And bound for sandals on his feet?Knowledge and patience of what must
And what things may be, in the heat?And cold of years that rot and rust
And alter; and his spirit's meat?Was freedom, and his staff was wrought?Of strength, and his cloak woven of thought.
For what has he whose will sees clear?To do with doubt and faith and fear,
Swift hopes and slow despondencies??His heart is equal with the sea's?And with the sea-wind's, and his ear
Is level to the speech of these,?And his soul communes and takes cheer
With the actual earth's equalities,?Air, light, and night, hills, winds, and streams,?And seeks not strength from strengthless dreams.
His soul is even with the sun?Whose spirit and whose eye are one,
Who seeks not stars by day, nor light?And heavy heat of day by night.?Him can no God cast down, whom none
Can lift in hope beyond the height?Of fate and nature and things done
By the calm rule of might and right?That bids men be and bear and do,?And die beneath blind skies or blue.
To him the lights of even and morn?Speak no vain things of love or scorn,
Fancies and passions miscreate?By man in things dispassionate.?Nor holds he fellowship forlorn
With souls that pray and hope and hate,?And doubt they had better not been born,
And fain would lure or scare off fate?And charm their doomsman from their doom?And make fear dig its own false tomb.
He builds not half of doubts and half?Of dreams his own soul's cenotaph,
Whence hopes and fears with helpless eyes,?Wrapt loose in cast-off cerecloths, rise?And dance and wring their hands and laugh,
And weep thin tears and sigh light sighs,?And without living lips would quaff
The living spring in man that lies,?And drain his soul of faith and strength?It might have lived on a life's length.
He hath given himself and hath not sold?To God for heaven or man for gold,
Or grief for comfort that it gives,?Or joy for grief's restoratives.?He hath given himself to time, whose fold
Shuts in the mortal flock that lives?On its plain pasture's heat and cold
And the equal year's alternatives.?Earth, heaven, and time, death, life, and he,?Endure while they shall be to be.
"Yet between death and life are hours?To flush with love and hide in flowers;
What profit save in these?" men cry:?"Ah, see, between soft earth and sky,?What only good things here are ours!"
They say, "what better wouldst thou try,?What sweeter sing of? or what powers
Serve, that will give thee ere thou die?More joy to sing and be less sad,?More heart to play and grow more glad?"
Play then and sing; we too have played,?We likewise, in that subtle shade.
We too have twisted through our hair?Such tendrils as the wild Loves wear,?And heard what mirth the Maenads made,
Till the wind blew our garlands bare?And left their roses disarrayed,
And smote the summer with strange air,?And disengirdled and discrowned?The limbs and locks that vine-wreaths bound.
We too have tracked by star-proof trees?The tempest of the Thyiades
Scare the loud night on hills that hid?The blood-feasts of the Bassarid,?Heard their song's iron cadences
Fright the wolf hungering from the kid,?Outroar the lion-throated seas,
Outchide the north-wind if it chid,?And hush the torrent-tongued ravines?With thunders of their tambourines.
But the fierce flute whose notes acclaim?Dim goddesses of fiery fame,
Cymbal and clamorous kettledrum,?Timbrels and tabrets, all are dumb?That turned the high chill air to flame;
The singing tongues of fire are numb?That called on Cotys by her