Poems By Robert Leighton: 2nd ed |
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| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXI. | XXI.
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| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
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 | Poems |  |
102
XXI.
[The poetry of earth is learnt in youth]
The poetry of earth is learnt in youth,
Through every open pore. When years have baked
Hard crusts about the soul, the beauty-throbs
Of Nature cannot reach it. I am stirr'd
More with the memory, the dream of things,
Than with the present fact. The setting day
Set through me one time, and the morning light
Came inwardly, and gave me richer blood.
But now they pass outside, and scarcely move
A pulse in all my being. I go far
To pay my homage to some world-famed lake,
Or mountain that puts on its crown of gold
An hour before the dawn;—but when I seek
To live the admiration, it grows dim.
The village pond and sunny bank, I find,
Have been more potent in their day, and yet
I turn'd no foot to see them.
Through every open pore. When years have baked
Hard crusts about the soul, the beauty-throbs
Of Nature cannot reach it. I am stirr'd
More with the memory, the dream of things,
Than with the present fact. The setting day
Set through me one time, and the morning light
Came inwardly, and gave me richer blood.
But now they pass outside, and scarcely move
A pulse in all my being. I go far
To pay my homage to some world-famed lake,
Or mountain that puts on its crown of gold
An hour before the dawn;—but when I seek
To live the admiration, it grows dim.
The village pond and sunny bank, I find,
Have been more potent in their day, and yet
I turn'd no foot to see them.
But we know
The spiritual breathings never come
To conscious expectation. Ghosts appear,—
But not when watch'd for. And the mystic light,
That steals, unsought, into the poet's eye,
And gives him Nature's imagery, comes not
When gazers call. Stars drop their lustry dew
Into the very eye of glaring Day,
Yet Day sees none. The things we seek, we miss:
But something else we do not seek, we get.
So, when I journey'd far to view the lake,
Or clomb laboriously the sun-crown'd hill,
And got not what I went for, who shall say
I got not something even more divine?—
Believe, that every wind blows some new seed
Within the fallow patches of the heart.
We see its flower, but whence or when it comes,
We never know. Though we are grown-up men
To that which we have learnt, we still are babes
To all that is beyond, and fed like babes.
We cry for more, still more—our wiser nurse
Knows that we have enough, and places us
Where needs, not wishes, may be best supplied.
The spiritual breathings never come
To conscious expectation. Ghosts appear,—
But not when watch'd for. And the mystic light,
That steals, unsought, into the poet's eye,
And gives him Nature's imagery, comes not
When gazers call. Stars drop their lustry dew
Into the very eye of glaring Day,
Yet Day sees none. The things we seek, we miss:
103
So, when I journey'd far to view the lake,
Or clomb laboriously the sun-crown'd hill,
And got not what I went for, who shall say
I got not something even more divine?—
Believe, that every wind blows some new seed
Within the fallow patches of the heart.
We see its flower, but whence or when it comes,
We never know. Though we are grown-up men
To that which we have learnt, we still are babes
To all that is beyond, and fed like babes.
We cry for more, still more—our wiser nurse
Knows that we have enough, and places us
Where needs, not wishes, may be best supplied.
A piece of business takes me to converse
With some much favour'd man. His fields and herds,
His gardens, and his far-outlooking house,
Raise painful questionings. They are to him
Only as so much money. Were they mine,
How much more fully could I draw their wealth!
'Tis folly! Let him keep them—he that needs
The riches he unconsciously receives,
And they so largely give. I have enough
Of the divinity of woods and glebes;
But many empty corners in my brain
Which Nature cannot fill. I must go back
To duties that for me hold out no charm.
That which we would be, we already are,
And do not need to be it. The desire
Arises from the fitness; and if earth
Were other than a school, 'twere well to do
The thing that each is fittest for. But no—
The world can do with failure and bad work,
So long as better'd men grow out of them.
With some much favour'd man. His fields and herds,
His gardens, and his far-outlooking house,
Raise painful questionings. They are to him
Only as so much money. Were they mine,
How much more fully could I draw their wealth!
'Tis folly! Let him keep them—he that needs
The riches he unconsciously receives,
And they so largely give. I have enough
Of the divinity of woods and glebes;
But many empty corners in my brain
Which Nature cannot fill. I must go back
To duties that for me hold out no charm.
That which we would be, we already are,
And do not need to be it. The desire
104
Were other than a school, 'twere well to do
The thing that each is fittest for. But no—
The world can do with failure and bad work,
So long as better'd men grow out of them.
The best philosophy still brings us back
To cheerful, child-like trust, our highest truths,
And most immediate duties. These accept—
These live and do, and so be one with God—
A willing part of that great wave that moves
The eras onward to the unknown shore:
Or, if a shoreless wave, still good for all.
To cheerful, child-like trust, our highest truths,
And most immediate duties. These accept—
These live and do, and so be one with God—
A willing part of that great wave that moves
The eras onward to the unknown shore:
Or, if a shoreless wave, still good for all.
| Poems | |