To me, in mine eternal agony, But as the shadows of dumb summer-clouds, While the immortal with the mortal linked With upward yearn unceasing. Better so: For wisdom is meek sorrow's patient child, Strong charities that make men seem like gods; Good never comes unmixed, or so it seems, Having two faces, as some images Are carved, of foolish gods; one face is ill; But one heart lies beneath, and that is good, As are all hearts, when we explore their depths. Would win men back to strength and peace through love: Envy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong With vulture beak; yet the high soul is left; And faith, which is but hope grown wise; and love; And patience, which at last shall overcome. SONG. VIOLET! Sweet violet! Thine eyes are full of tears; Are they wet Even yet With the thought of other years? Or with gladness are they full, For the night so beautiful, And longing for those far-off spheres ? Loved-one of my youth thou wast, Of my merry youth, And I see, All the fair and sunny past, Ever fresh and green in thee Thy little heart, that hath with love On which thou lookest ever, Can it know All the woe Of hope for what returneth never, All the sorrow and the longing To these hearts of ours belonging? Out on it! no foolish pining For the sky Dims thine eye, Or for the stars so calmly shining; Like thee let this soul of mine Take hue from that wherefor I long, Self-stayed and high, serene and strong, Not satisfied with hoping-but divine. |