 | Lyrics (1895) |  |
73
THE BEE ON THE GLACIER
High on the fields of narrowing ice,
By cataracts of toppling snows,
Where precipice on precipice
Frowns nearer, till the gorges close,
By cataracts of toppling snows,
Where precipice on precipice
Frowns nearer, till the gorges close,
Thy velvet hide, thy pinions soft,
Were all too frail, poor piteous thing,
By treacherous breezes whirled aloft,
With frozen trunk and shrivelled wing.
Were all too frail, poor piteous thing,
By treacherous breezes whirled aloft,
With frozen trunk and shrivelled wing.
Thy body warmed with milder suns
Has thawed a scant and oozy grave,
The crystal streamlet near thee runs,
Below, the turbid torrents rave.
Has thawed a scant and oozy grave,
The crystal streamlet near thee runs,
Below, the turbid torrents rave.
74
The ready flower to feed thee bent;
From bloom to bloom still humming by,
Thou didst not stay to guess what meant
Those shadowy glooms that scaled the sky.
From bloom to bloom still humming by,
Thou didst not stay to guess what meant
Those shadowy glooms that scaled the sky.
‘If here so sweetly throng the flowers,
Beyond those summits, thunder-riven,
There must be fairer blooms than ours,
To drink the nearer dews of heaven.’
Beyond those summits, thunder-riven,
There must be fairer blooms than ours,
To drink the nearer dews of heaven.’
Until that bright adventurous morn,
Some soaring impulse bade thee haste,
By mounting whirlwinds helpless borne
Across the interminable waste.
Some soaring impulse bade thee haste,
By mounting whirlwinds helpless borne
Across the interminable waste.
Till faint, bewildered, thou wouldst turn
To seek again thy woodland sod;
The echoed suns too fiercely burn
Beneath the careless eye of God.
To seek again thy woodland sod;
The echoed suns too fiercely burn
Beneath the careless eye of God.
75
Nay, nay.—It was too far, too high:
Alas! there is no turning back
For him who dares the barren sky,
Who falters in the heavenly track.
Alas! there is no turning back
For him who dares the barren sky,
Who falters in the heavenly track.
The singer, nursed in homely joys,—
The lawn, the long sequestered lane,—
Hears in the air the distant noise
Of hurrying glory, restless gain;
The lawn, the long sequestered lane,—
Hears in the air the distant noise
Of hurrying glory, restless gain;
He might have sung of simple things,
And charmed the listening circle round,
But now in dizzy air he swings,
And seeks in vain to touch the ground.
And charmed the listening circle round,
But now in dizzy air he swings,
And seeks in vain to touch the ground.
The harp he might have swept is jarred,
The dusty strings untuneful lie,
With all the merry music marred;—
For him the silence, and the sky.
The dusty strings untuneful lie,
With all the merry music marred;—
For him the silence, and the sky.
76
If not content to reign below,
There is no throne for him above;
Oh! is it well to try to know
How high is truth, how blind is love?
There is no throne for him above;
Oh! is it well to try to know
How high is truth, how blind is love?
| Lyrics (1895) | |