XII A CHARACTER WITH a half-glance upon the sky He spake of beauty: that the dull Life in dead stones, or spirit in air; He smooth'd his chin and sleek'd his hair, He spake of virtue: not the gods More purely, when they wish to charm And with a sweeping of the arm, Most delicately hour by hour With lips depress'd as he were meek, Upon himself himself did feed: Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, And other than his form of creed, With chisell'd features clear and sleek. XIII THE POET THE poet in a golden clime was born, Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, The marvel of the everlasting will, An open scroll, Before him lay: with echoing feet he threaded The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue, From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung, And vagrant melodies the winds which bore Then, like the arrow-seeds of the field flower, Cleaving, took root, and springing forth anew Like to the mother plant in semblance, grew And bravely furnish'd all abroad to fling To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world And thro' the wreaths of floating dark upcurl'd, And Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise When rites and forms before his burning eyes There was no blood upon her maiden robes But round about the circles of the globes And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame All evil dreams of power-a sacred name. Her words did gather thunder as they ran, So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word She shook the world. XIV THE POET'S MIND 1 VEX not thou the poet's mind For thou canst not fathom it. 2 Dark-brow'd sophist, come not anear; Holy water will I pour Into every spicy flower Of the laurel-shrubs that hedge it around. There is frost in your breath Which would blight the plants. Where you stand you cannot hear From the groves within The wild-bird's din. In the heart of the garden the merry bird chants, It would fall to the ground if you came in. In the middle leaps a fountain Ever brightening With a low melodious thunder; And the mountain draws it from Heaven above, And yet, tho' its voice be so clear and full, XV NOTHING WILL DIE WHEN Will the stream be aweary of flowing When will the wind be aweary of blowing When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting? Never, oh! never, nothing will die; The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die; All things will change Through eternity. 'Tis the world's winter ; Earth is dry to the centre, Through and through, Here and there, Till the air And the ground Shall be filled with life anew. The world was never made; It will change, but it will not fade. For even and morn Through eternity. Nothing was born; Nothing will die; All things will change. XVI ALL THINGS WILL DIE CLEARLY the blue river chimes in its flowing Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing One after another the white clouds are fleeting; Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating Full merrily; Yet all things must die. The stream will cease to flow; The wind will cease to blow; The clouds will cease to fleet; All things must die. Spring will come never more. Death waits at the door. See our friends are all forsaking Laid low, very low, In the dark we must lie. Hark! death is calling |