XL. O, might life fade away and gently cease While untried hope is full of sinewy spring As a new bow, ere yet by slow degrees Earth's dust hath clotted round the soul's fresh wing And made us flutter, sink, and crawl, and die, Heart-broken by our instinct for the sky! XLI. But Earth is Earth, and beautiful is she Our mother, from whose fertile breast we draw Half of our nature: it is destiny That we flee to her from the gloomy maw Of the unknown; for we can never see More than a fragment of the spirit's law, XLII. Sorrow, there seemeth more of thee in life Wherewith the cable of our dreams we share, XLIII. Yet let us dream while we are anchored yet, The stars of life one after other set, And, while we can with faith, 't is good to make The world seem what it was when first we turned, Saw its broad stretch, and for its triumphs burned. XLIV. Could Margaret have seen the shaft of woe Which fate even now was drawing to the head, Even in the very twanging of the bow, Whose aim must strike her soaring gladness dead, Though life went with it, so the heart is fain XLV. No matter, woe is short and life is long: We prate too much of this world's flitting grief, Thoughtless of the unimaginable throng Of after-lives that bring the soul relief And countless chances more like oak-trees strong, We shed our frail lives from us, leaf by leaf, And each new death but brings the spirit more Broad worlds to win and beauty to adore. XLVI. So, Margaret, let thy heart leap up to hear, Each night, the rustle of the leaves which tells That the long dreamed-of ecstasy is near, That made the day seem empty: O, what swells Have died away, and Hesper in the west XLVII. How should she dream of ill? the heart filled quite Is all shut out, no boding shade of blight XLVIII. When Mordred came, all soul she seemed to be, And quite broke through the clay's entangling mesh, His spirit with her eyes she seemed to see, As if an angel, quitting her awhile, Left round her heart the halo of his smile. XLIX. Bright passion of young hearts, like the huge burst Sight of the rousing ocean, poor And barren of all life as spots accurst, and bare, Thou mak❜st all other joys, once deemed most rare! So Margaret thought when Mordred went away And made day night, or came and made night day. |