Poems By William Bell Scott |
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DEATH. |
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125
DEATH.
I am the one whose thought
Is as the deed; I have no brother, and No father; years
Have never seen my power begin. A chain
Doth bind all things to me. In my hand, man,—
Infinite thinker,—vanishes as doth
The worm that he creates, as doth the moth
That it creates, as doth the limb minute
That stirs upon that moth. My being is
Inborn with all things, and
With all things doth expand.
Is as the deed; I have no brother, and No father; years
Have never seen my power begin. A chain
Doth bind all things to me. In my hand, man,—
Infinite thinker,—vanishes as doth
The worm that he creates, as doth the moth
That it creates, as doth the limb minute
That stirs upon that moth. My being is
Inborn with all things, and
With all things doth expand.
But fear me not; I am
The hoary dust, the shut ear, the profound,
The deep of night,
When Nature's universal heart doth cease
To beat; communicating nothing; dark
And tongueless, negative of all things. Yet
Fear me not, man; I am the blood that flows
Within thee,—I am change; and it is I
Creates a joy within thee, when thou feel'st
Manhood and new untried superior powers
Rising before thee: I it is can make
Old things give place
To thy free race.
The hoary dust, the shut ear, the profound,
The deep of night,
When Nature's universal heart doth cease
To beat; communicating nothing; dark
126
Fear me not, man; I am the blood that flows
Within thee,—I am change; and it is I
Creates a joy within thee, when thou feel'st
Manhood and new untried superior powers
Rising before thee: I it is can make
Old things give place
To thy free race.
All things are born for me.
His father and his mother,—yet man hates
Me foolishly.
An easy spirit and a free lives on,
But he who fears the ice doth stumble. Walk
Straight onward peacefully,—I am a friend
Will pass thee graciously: but grudge and weep
And cark,—I'll be a cold chain round thy neck
Into the grave, each day a link drawn in,
Untill thy face shall be upon the turf,
And the hair from thy crown
Be blown like thistle-down.
His father and his mother,—yet man hates
Me foolishly.
An easy spirit and a free lives on,
But he who fears the ice doth stumble. Walk
Straight onward peacefully,—I am a friend
Will pass thee graciously: but grudge and weep
And cark,—I'll be a cold chain round thy neck
Into the grave, each day a link drawn in,
Untill thy face shall be upon the turf,
And the hair from thy crown
Be blown like thistle-down.
| Poems | |