 | The Poetical Works of John Payne |  |
A PRELUDE.
WHAT shall my song be of these latter days,
These darkened days of toil and weariness?
Lo! for sheer burden of the grief that slays
The adventure in men's hearts and for the stress
Of doubt, my feet turn from the sunlit ways,
My eyes drink darkness from the morning rays
And my tongue curses where it fain would bless.
These darkened days of toil and weariness?
Lo! for sheer burden of the grief that slays
The adventure in men's hearts and for the stress
Of doubt, my feet turn from the sunlit ways,
My eyes drink darkness from the morning rays
And my tongue curses where it fain would bless.
Ah! who shall cure the sickness of the time?
Who shall bring healing to the wounded age?
Not I, forsooth. I—with my idle rhyme—
Right gladly would I blazon all the page
Of life with flowers and with the happy chime
Of heart-free songs, lift up the folk to climb
The peaks that soar out of the tempest's rage;
Who shall bring healing to the wounded age?
Not I, forsooth. I—with my idle rhyme—
Right gladly would I blazon all the page
Of life with flowers and with the happy chime
Of heart-free songs, lift up the folk to climb
The peaks that soar out of the tempest's rage;
Ah, how soul-gladly! But the life in me
Is worn with doubt and agony and care:
Fain would I lead: alas! I cannot see
Myself the way. The presage in the air
Weighs on my thought and will not set it free.
Ah God! the helpless, saddened soul of me!
How shall I sing glad songs of my despair?
Is worn with doubt and agony and care:
Fain would I lead: alas! I cannot see
Myself the way. The presage in the air
Weighs on my thought and will not set it free.
Ah God! the helpless, saddened soul of me!
How shall I sing glad songs of my despair?
How shall I sing of aught but that I love?
How should I be in love with aught but sleep?
I, that have watched the morning mists remove
And heaven break open to its grayest deep,
Straining my eyes around me and above,
Only to see the dreams that erst I wove
Melt in the noonday, leaving me to weep!
How should I be in love with aught but sleep?
I, that have watched the morning mists remove
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Straining my eyes around me and above,
Only to see the dreams that erst I wove
Melt in the noonday, leaving me to weep!
I, that thought once no ills should daunt my faith,
That hope should pluck the laurel from the abyss,
Can this be I of old, this world-worn wraith
Of brighter days, living on memories
And bitter food of dreams, in love with Death,
Seeking no laurel but a cypress-wreath,
Can this be I, with all my hopes grown this?
That hope should pluck the laurel from the abyss,
Can this be I of old, this world-worn wraith
Of brighter days, living on memories
And bitter food of dreams, in love with Death,
Seeking no laurel but a cypress-wreath,
Can this be I, with all my hopes grown this?
Alas! the long gray years have vanquished me,
The shadow of the inexorable days.
I am grown sad and silent: for the sea
Of Time has swallowed all my pleasant ways.
I am grown weary of the years that flee
And bring no light to set my bound hope free,
No sun to fill the promise of old Mays.
The shadow of the inexorable days.
I am grown sad and silent: for the sea
Of Time has swallowed all my pleasant ways.
I am grown weary of the years that flee
And bring no light to set my bound hope free,
No sun to fill the promise of old Mays.
For, let the summer throne it as it will,
Life and the sun are sad and sere to him
(Sadder than Death and Night) who wearies still
For his desire and sees upon the rim
Of the pale sky no sign that shall fulfil
The covenant of promise every rill,
Each flower swore to him, whilst the dawn broke dim.
Life and the sun are sad and sere to him
(Sadder than Death and Night) who wearies still
For his desire and sees upon the rim
Of the pale sky no sign that shall fulfil
The covenant of promise every rill,
Each flower swore to him, whilst the dawn broke dim.
How shall the sunlight thaw his wintry thought?
His eyes look past the harvest and the throng
Of flower-crowned hours, to where the peace long sought
Lies on the fields and all the stress life-long
Into the ice-calm woof of sleep is wrought:
Needs must he wander, with void hope distraught,
Measuring his sad life with a less sad song.
His eyes look past the harvest and the throng
Of flower-crowned hours, to where the peace long sought
Lies on the fields and all the stress life-long
Into the ice-calm woof of sleep is wrought:
Needs must he wander, with void hope distraught,
Measuring his sad life with a less sad song.
| The Poetical Works of John Payne | |