What is it they say? what do they there? Why two and two make four? why round is not square?
Why the rock stands still, and the light clouds fly?
Why the heavy oak groans, and the white willows sigh?
Why deep is not high, and high is not deep? Whether we wake, or whether we sleep? Whether we sleep, or whether we die? How you are you? why I am I? Who will riddle me the how and the why?
The world is somewhat; it goes on some
But what is the meaning of then and now? I feel there is something; but how and what?
I know there is somewhat: but what and why?
I cannot tell if that somewhat be I. The little bird pipeth - "why? why?" In the summer woods when the sun falls low,
And the great bird sits on the opposite bough,
And stares in his face, and shouts "how? how?"
And the black owl scuds down the mellow twilight,
And chants " how? how?" the whole of the night.
Why the life goes when the blood is spilt? What the life is? where the soul may lie? Why a church is with a steeple built : And a house with a chimney-pot? Who will riddle me the how and the what? Who will riddle me the what and the why?
While I do pray to thee alone, Think my belief would stronger grow! Is not my human pride brought low? The boastings of my spirit still? The joy I had in my free will All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown? And what is left to me, but thou, And faith in thee? Men pass me by ; Christians with happy countenances And children all seem full of thee! And women smile with saintlike glances Like thine own mother's when she bowed Above thee, on that happy morn When angels spake to men aloud, And thou and peace to earth were born. Goodwill to me as well as all-
How sweet to have a common faith! To hold a common scorn of death! And at a burial to hear,
The creaking cords which wound and eat Into my human heart, whene'er Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear,
With hopeful grief, were passing sweet! A grief not uninformed, and dull, Hearted with hope, of hope as full As is the blood with life, or night And a dark cloud with rich moonlight. To stand beside a grave, and see The red small atoms wherewith we Are built, and smile in calm, and say - "These little motes and grains shall be Clothed on with immortality More glorious than the noon of day.
All that is pass'd into the flowers, And into beasts and other men, And all the Norland whirlwind showers From open vaults, and all the sea
OF A SECOND-RATE SENSITIVE MIND NOT O'erwashes with sharp salts, again
IN UNITY WITH ITSELF.
O GOD! my God! have mercy now. I faint, I fall. Men say that thou Didst die for me, for such as me, Patient of ill, and death, and scorn, And that my sin was as a thorn Among the thorns that girt thy brow, Wounding thy soul. That even now, In this extremest misery
Of ignorance, I should require A sign and if a bolt of fire
Shall fleet together all, and be Indued with immortality."
Thrice happy state again to be The trustful infant on the knee ! Who lets his waxen fingers play About his mother's neck, and knows Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. They comfort him by night and day, They light his little life alway; He hath no thought of coming woes;
Would rive the slumberous summer noon | He hath no care of life or death,
Scarce outward signs of joy arise, Because the Spirit of happiness And perfect rest so inward is; And loveth so his innocent heart, Her temple and her place of birth, Where she would ever wish to dwell, Life of the fountain there, beneath Its salient springs, and far apart, Hating to wander out on earth, Or breathe into the hollow air, Whose chillness would make visible Her subtile, warm, and golden breath, Which mixing with the infant's blood, Full fills him with beatitude. Oh! sure it is a special care Of God, to fortify from doubt, To arm in proof, and guard about With triple mailéd trust, and clear Delight, the infant's dawning year. Would that my gloomed fancy were As thine, my mother, when with brows Propped on thy knees, my hands upheld In thine, I listened to thy vows, For me outpoured in holiest prayer - For me unworthy!—and beheld The mild deep eyes upraised, that knew The beauty and repose of faith, And the clear spirit shining through. Oh! wherefore do we grow awry From roots which strike so deep? why dare Paths in the desert? Could not I Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, To th' earth -until the ice would melt Here, and I feel as thou hast felt? What Devil had the heart to scathe Flowers thou hadst reared -- to brush the dew
From thine own lily, when thy grave Was deep, my mother, in the clay? Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I So little love for thee? But why Prevailed not thy pure prayers? Why pray To one who heeds not, who can save But will not? Great in faith, and strong Against the grief of circumstance Wert thou, and yet unheard? What if Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive Through utter dark a full-sailed skiff, Unpiloted i' the echoing dance Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low Unto the death, not sunk! I know At matins and at evensong, That thou, if thou wert yet alive, In deep and daily prayers wouldst strive To reconcile me with thy God. Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold At heart, thou wouldest murmur still
"Bring this lamb back into thy fold, My Lord, if so it be thy will." Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod, And chastisement of human pride; That pride, the sin of devils, stood Betwixt me and the light of God! That hitherto I had defied,
And had rejected God—that Grace Would drop from his o'erbrimming love, As manna on my wilderness, If I would pray - that God would move And strike the hard, hard rock, and thence,
Sweet in their utmost bitterness, Would issue tears of penitence Which would keep green hope's life. Alas!
I think that pride hath now no place Or sojourn in me. I am void, Dark, formless, utterly destroyed.
Why not believe then? Why not yet Anchor thy frailty there, where man Hath moored and rested? Ask the sea At midnight, when the crisp slope waves After a tempest, rib and fret The broad-imbaséd beach, why he Slumbers not like a mountain tarn? Wherefore his ridges are not curls And ripples of an inland meer? Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can Draw down into his vexéd pools All that blue heaven which hues and paves The other? I am too forlorn, Too shaken my own weakness fools My judgment, and my spirit whirls, Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.
"Yet," said I, in my morn of youth, The unsunned freshness of my strength, When I went forth in quest of truth, "It is man's privilege to doubt, If so be that from doubt, at length, Truth may stand forth unmoved of change, An image with profulgent brows, And perfect limbs, as from the storm Of running fires and fluid range Of lawless airs at last stood out This excellence and solid form Of constant beauty. For the Ox Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills The hornéd valleys all about, And hollows of the fringed hills In summerheats, with placid lows Unfearing, till his own blood flows About his hoof. And in the flocks The lamb rejoiceth in the year,
And raceth freely with his fere, And answers to his mother's calls From the flowered furrow. In a time, Of which he wots not, run short pains Through his warm heart: and then, from whence
He knows not, on his light there falls A shadow; and his native slope Where he was wont to leap and climb, Floats from his sick and filmed eyes, And something in the darkness draws His forehead earthward, and he dies. Shall men live thus, in joy and hope As a young lamb, who cannot dream, Living, but that he shall live on? Shall we not look into the laws Of life and death, and things that seem, And things that be, and analyze Our double nature, and compare All creeds till we have found the one, If one there be?" Ay me! I fear All may not doubt, but everywhere Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, Whom call I Idol? Let thy dove Shadow me over, and my sins Be unremembered, and thy love Enlighten me. O teach me yet Somewhat before the heavy clod Weighs on me, and the busy fret Of that sharp-headed worm begins In the gross blackness underneath.
O weary life! O weary death! O spirit and heart made desolate ! O damnéd vacillating state!
The cruellest form of perfect scorn, With languor of most hateful smiles, For ever write,
In the withered light
Of the tearless eye,
An epitaph that all may spy? No sooner she herself shall die.
For her the showers shall not fall, Nor the round sun shine that shineth to all;
Her light shall into darkness change; For her the green grass shall not spring, Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing,
Till Love have his full revenge.
SAINTED Juliet! dearest name! If to love be life alone, Divinest Juliet,
I love thee, and live; and yet Love unreturned is like the fragrant flame
Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice
Offered to gods upon an altar-throne; My heart is lighted at thine eyes, Changed into fire, and blown about with sighs.
O joy! O bliss of blisses!
My heart of hearts art thou. Come bathe me with thy kisses, My eyelids and my brow. Hark how the wild rain hisses,
And the loud sea roars below.
Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs, So gladly doth it stir; Thine eye in drops of gladness swims. I have bathed thee with the pleasant myrrh;
Thy locks are dripping balm; Thou shalt not wander hence to-night,
I'll stay thee with my kisses. To-night the roaring brine
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