 | Poems (1895) |  |
102
XXXII.
When we behold the air-suspended swordO'er human joy for ever pendulous;
And see the earthly pitfalls 'waiting us
Thickly along life's way; of act or word
We grow incapable, and fain would wait
Stirless and speechless for the coming state,
Wherein the millions of the past abide—
Their dust, their deeds, and their recorded pride:
And our vow'd spirits (like the devotees
In attitudinal monotony
Transfix'd in Indian forests, till the trees
O'ergrow them, and the wild birds build thereon)
Seem stricken to their place eternally,
And no more vital than a stock or stone.
| Poems (1895) | |