قراءة كتاب Poems
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 9
and some vanquished; some he slays—
But then the soldiers are mere toys of tin—
And carelessly upon the ground, he lays
Vanquished and victors on one common plane;
And takes some other toy and laughs and plays—
Yes, like that soldier, may I fight, and gain
Great victories. Oh, I may stare my Fate
Between the eyes, and drink whole draughts of pain;
With Stoic-strength, may struggle, and may hate;
But where's the payment that I vainly wait?
XIV
| I dare not ponder on humanity; Myself, I dare not ponder, nor my goal. Oh, would that I were lost upon that sea Into whose silence, Lethe's currents roll. Upon its bosom, would that I pressed mine, Then might some kindly power transform this soul Into forgetfulness. Or would some wine Were brewed with musk or attar of the rose And colored with a tint incarnadine, And so compounded that a dreamless doze Would come from one red, richly-scented draught. Or would that some unmoving glacier froze My soul within its crystal mine.—No craft Can save me from this cup of pain unquaffed. |
XV
| Oh, every soul is only pain embalmed; And every torment is but bliss's sting. Humanity lies gasping and becalmed Upon a torrid ocean; and no wing Of albatross is seen—nor e'er was seen— Our worldly hope is dead—yet rules as king. Dust, ashes, ashes, dust, upon these lean All of the upward struggle of mankind; And pain, unending pain, is all they glean. Goddess of pain, O mistress of the mind, Art thou the Soul of life? Or hast thou palmed Thyself on men once happy? Have we pined Forever? Can our spirits e'er be calmed; Or is the spirit only pain embalmed? |
XVI
| But what of art? Can art no solace hold, No soothing spikenard, soporose drug or wine To woo the wounded soul? Must men grow old In agony? Or has some thought divine Slipped down upon us, cool, compassionate? But what of art? Can art's frail power refine Our souls into that Oversoul, and mate The each with All in one, sublime design? Art is the vision of that Truth innate In man. A soul, prismatic, crystalline, May show each glow of being with each strife At once reflected and becalmed, and twine Then into some new, inward world all rife With spirit blisses of a spirit life. |
XVII
| Eternal art can triumph over pain; And once we breathe the lotus-fragrance deep, The world may scream with iron tongue in vain, For all the argosy is soothed to sleep. The ships may rot forever on the sand; And far off Greece may wait and faintly weep. More rare than spice from silken Samarkand, More sorrow-sweet than young Francesca's tears, More fair than yearning night upon the strand, And more majestic than Anchises' years: Beauty's the image, not the thing. 'Tis shod With rainbow lightnings of the hopes and fears, And knows each step humanity may plod. Art is the Beauty of the face of God. |
XVIII
| But still I live within this place of pain; And still I seek for an eternal aim, For, after death, mere Beauty is in vain. What is there deeper flowing from this same Unceasing spring? Quick, let me tear the veil! There sat a statue on an ebon frame— A statue in that house of pain. So pale The brow and still the nostrils, Death it seemed; But in the face, I read that holy tale That lay on the Madonna's face where gleamed The Heavenly light from the young Christ's aureole. Through all the halls of pain, the brilliance beamed; And every discord out of chaos stole To swell the throbbing organ's thunderous roll. |
XIX
| Faith is the master-spirit of the mind. All else is vanity, the preacher saith; And worldly knowledge painful is and blind. Oh, be thyself, and trust thyself. The breath Of God is breathed on thee. Believe, and will; And all that thou wouldst have in life, in death, Is thine. I heard a rustling like a rill Upon its leafy bed—just such a sound As tincts the shadow of a song with skill More intricate than arabesques, and bound With tender, faintly-flowing melodies— But whence the choir sang, I never found. Mayhap at last, myself may learn the ties Wherewith are bound those lingering harmonies. |
XX
| And when the soul has torn the fleshly veil, And moves majestic to that monotone, When echo-like upon the air I sail Whither the wingèd skylark, Faith, has flown, And borne me fainting upward; then my soul May seek the God of art which silent, lone, Broods on a crystal-argent sea, the goal Of all humanity. Incarnate pain Is calmed to everlasting peace. There roll No waves upon the sea. Charmed has it lain Through incommensurate time; charmed will it lie Through all eternity; and there again Upon my soul in silence wrapped, shall sigh, Most beautiful—a mother's lullaby. December, 1912. January, 1913. |
