 | Carol and Cadence |  |
ETERNAL QUESTION.
Since you are dead,
My queen,
And dead with you
Are all the gracious things
You used to do,
The lovesome sweetnesses you looked and said,
The tender thoughts that harboured in your head,
Dead as the Summers past, the bygone Springs,
Dead as the blossomtides of heretofore,
As that which once hath been
And is to all eternity no more,
How comes it that the throstle yonder sings,
That in the woods the primroses are new,
The cowslips in the green
Pale golden glitter even as of yore
And are yet trinketed with diamond dew,
That, in their primal sheen,
Unmindful of your life, my love forsped,
The seasons wear the livery erst they wore,
That roses yet are red,
That jessamines are white and Heaven is blue?
My queen,
And dead with you
Are all the gracious things
You used to do,
The lovesome sweetnesses you looked and said,
The tender thoughts that harboured in your head,
Dead as the Summers past, the bygone Springs,
Dead as the blossomtides of heretofore,
As that which once hath been
And is to all eternity no more,
How comes it that the throstle yonder sings,
That in the woods the primroses are new,
The cowslips in the green
Pale golden glitter even as of yore
And are yet trinketed with diamond dew,
That, in their primal sheen,
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The seasons wear the livery erst they wore,
That roses yet are red,
That jessamines are white and Heaven is blue?
With eyes unsure for tears,
I look upon the linden's golden cloud,
She loved so, when in May
It leafed and laughed and blossomed, myriad-boughed.
This year forlorn, as in the happy years,
It buds and blows and brims the blissful day
With breath of Faërie,
Telling in scent its tale of things bygone
And things that yet shall be
In elfin realms, where mortal hopes and fears
Are not and thought is free
From Time, nor Life by mortal night and dawn
Strait-measured goes beneath the blossomed bough.
I look upon the linden's golden cloud,
She loved so, when in May
It leafed and laughed and blossomed, myriad-boughed.
This year forlorn, as in the happy years,
It buds and blows and brims the blissful day
With breath of Faërie,
Telling in scent its tale of things bygone
And things that yet shall be
In elfin realms, where mortal hopes and fears
Are not and thought is free
From Time, nor Life by mortal night and dawn
Strait-measured goes beneath the blossomed bough.
Back from Spring's golden Now
Unto the golden Then, when life was love,
I look, from earth a-bloom to Heaven above
A-flower with sun and song:
Idly I look and marvel idly how
These all, that owe their life to thought, can be,
Can thus that life prolong,
Resurgent still anew,
Can sleep and wake again and have new birth,
Once Winter's death is o'er and fields are free,
Beneath the unclouded blue,
When she, who thought them into life for me,
Death's gate unto the Silent Land passed through,
Forever lifeless lies
And sleeps beneath the all-engrossing earth,
Thoughtless and senseless, knowing dark nor light,
In unawakening night,
Where nothing is but nothing, nothing sure,
To all eternity,
But Death the pale and pure,
God of the deafened ears and darkened eyes,
And we,
Who lived but in her life, must needs endure
Blank earth without her presence and blank skies.
Unto the golden Then, when life was love,
I look, from earth a-bloom to Heaven above
A-flower with sun and song:
Idly I look and marvel idly how
These all, that owe their life to thought, can be,
Can thus that life prolong,
Resurgent still anew,
Can sleep and wake again and have new birth,
Once Winter's death is o'er and fields are free,
Beneath the unclouded blue,
When she, who thought them into life for me,
Death's gate unto the Silent Land passed through,
Forever lifeless lies
And sleeps beneath the all-engrossing earth,
Thoughtless and senseless, knowing dark nor light,
In unawakening night,
Where nothing is but nothing, nothing sure,
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But Death the pale and pure,
God of the deafened ears and darkened eyes,
And we,
Who lived but in her life, must needs endure
Blank earth without her presence and blank skies.
Ah, piteous problem! Since Death first began
With the voracious earth
All that is precious in the eyes of man,
All that is most of worth,
All that is fair, for evermore to cover,
Nor might, for any questioning, discover
That which he would withal nor how his ban
Had root in cause, how many and many a lover,
His ripening harvest smitten of death with dearth,
Hath with his sorry thought
Wrestled and striven in vain and vainly sought
To solve the sad enigma of his woe,
His hopes first nursed by Nature into flower,
As 'twere in very wantonness, one hour,
And in the next, as idly, evenso
To nothingness inexorable brought!
How many have the answer striven to know
And found it but in blank unanswering Nought!
With the voracious earth
All that is precious in the eyes of man,
All that is most of worth,
All that is fair, for evermore to cover,
Nor might, for any questioning, discover
That which he would withal nor how his ban
Had root in cause, how many and many a lover,
His ripening harvest smitten of death with dearth,
Hath with his sorry thought
Wrestled and striven in vain and vainly sought
To solve the sad enigma of his woe,
His hopes first nursed by Nature into flower,
As 'twere in very wantonness, one hour,
And in the next, as idly, evenso
To nothingness inexorable brought!
How many have the answer striven to know
And found it but in blank unanswering Nought!
Yet in their unreturning track I go,
Down-trodden of the many-mingling feet
Of myriad generations, fool and sage,
And to the irresponsive heavens repeat
The idle question of so many an age.
Nay, silence, trifler! Hide thy foolish head.
Best were it mute
To be, when speech in nothing profiteth
And thought-taking still barren is of fruit.
The Summer passeth; see, the vines are red
And Autumn's mist the coming frosts foresaith.
Nay, lesson take
By Nature and that grief,
For which no mortal ever found relief,
For very decency and manhood's sake,
Cover, as doth she, with green and golden leaf.
What booteth it complain, when all is said,
Or seek to awake
The unexistent Gods with prayerful breath?
Peace! 'Tis in vain to question of the dead;
And peace in presence meetest is of death.
Down-trodden of the many-mingling feet
Of myriad generations, fool and sage,
And to the irresponsive heavens repeat
The idle question of so many an age.
Nay, silence, trifler! Hide thy foolish head.
Best were it mute
To be, when speech in nothing profiteth
And thought-taking still barren is of fruit.
The Summer passeth; see, the vines are red
And Autumn's mist the coming frosts foresaith.
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By Nature and that grief,
For which no mortal ever found relief,
For very decency and manhood's sake,
Cover, as doth she, with green and golden leaf.
What booteth it complain, when all is said,
Or seek to awake
The unexistent Gods with prayerful breath?
Peace! 'Tis in vain to question of the dead;
And peace in presence meetest is of death.
| Carol and Cadence | |