Records and Other Poems By the late Robert Leighton |
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TRUST, IN DESPONDENCY. |
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 | Records and Other Poems |  |
271
TRUST, IN DESPONDENCY.
My being grows to earth, and the quick soul
Doth, day by day, grow weaker; a gross heap
Of evil thoughts, impure imaginings,
And that thick stupor, of indulgence bred,
Weighs on me like a world and keeps me down;
And that which we suppose most free—the mind—
Is choked and buried by gross qualities.
No good deed presses through me, no clear thought
Wells like a spring within, but all thick, rank,
And stagnant as yon puddle, is my brain.
Doth, day by day, grow weaker; a gross heap
Of evil thoughts, impure imaginings,
And that thick stupor, of indulgence bred,
Weighs on me like a world and keeps me down;
And that which we suppose most free—the mind—
Is choked and buried by gross qualities.
No good deed presses through me, no clear thought
Wells like a spring within, but all thick, rank,
And stagnant as yon puddle, is my brain.
Bad, let alone, grows good and beautiful,
And things that we have marr'd and spoil'd grow right,
When to the silent Worker of the universe
Our meddling hands give place. Yea, even from
The refuse and the leavings of the earth,
That lie corrupting—when the poisonous stream
Hath dried into the all-absorbing air,
And He hath breathed within—do flowers spring
And herbs of rarest virtue.—From this time,
I'll add no more to the corrupted mass
That is my mind, but let the ferment cease;
And the good Spirit that moves in flowers and herbs,
May come into the dark cells of my brain,
And pour again the light which they have lost,
And with His gentle, unperceivèd touch,
Make that as snow which is as foul as sludge,
And that most living which is now most dead.
And things that we have marr'd and spoil'd grow right,
When to the silent Worker of the universe
Our meddling hands give place. Yea, even from
The refuse and the leavings of the earth,
That lie corrupting—when the poisonous stream
Hath dried into the all-absorbing air,
And He hath breathed within—do flowers spring
And herbs of rarest virtue.—From this time,
I'll add no more to the corrupted mass
That is my mind, but let the ferment cease;
And the good Spirit that moves in flowers and herbs,
May come into the dark cells of my brain,
And pour again the light which they have lost,
272
Make that as snow which is as foul as sludge,
And that most living which is now most dead.
O, all unhealthy seems the air I breathe,
All cloudy and all hopeless seems my sky;
And I could e'en despair and give all up,
But for my certain trust in the good Spirit
That righteth all we leave into His hand.
All cloudy and all hopeless seems my sky;
And I could e'en despair and give all up,
But for my certain trust in the good Spirit
That righteth all we leave into His hand.
| Records and Other Poems | |