Madmoments: or First Verseattempts :: :: University of Virginia Library

I do remember well the Day on which
I wrought a Miracle, yet I had not
Medea's Wand, or Archimago's Spell,
I had them not, yet still less did I need;
I wrought no Charm, I wove no mystic Words
To pluck the Stars down from their orbëd Spheres;
I only thought: and lo! the Thing was done!
A Wonder— yet not wonderful, save to
The Man who knows not what he is and has.
I was in Sorrow, for the Grave had closed
O'er one whom I much loved: I sat, and heard
The Birds that sang so blithely, and I saw
The Flowers unconscious of my Misery.
And yet they soothed me, more, far more, than Words
Of studied Consolation: for tho' they
Are voiceless, yet they are a Language to
Be felt, and God can speak as well by them,
As by Man's Lip! and viewing them, I said,
«Why do I weep when all around is Joy,
Teaching in silent Wise the mighty Truth?»
Is not Imagination mine? then why
Should this sublimest of all Faculties
Be left disused? this Faculty which is
Health to the Sick, and Riches to the Poor,
And unto him who will Eternity:
Youth to Oldage, and everything to each,
Who knows but how to use it, and believes,
For without Faith there is no Miracle!
I thought a little while, and he who thinks
Deeply is far beyond the Reach of Pain,
Withdrawn, like some far Star within the Depths

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Of the blue Ether, from the Storm below.
A Tear, which had just gathered in my Eye,
Fell on my Hand and roused me, and I looked
Upon it almost with a Smile, and half-
Surprized, scarce conscious whence it came from, said
«What do'st thou here, sad Messenger of Grief,
Who hast forgot to tell what thou wast bid,
And now art free to bear a Message for
What Master Chance may send thee?» and, methinks,
Thou might'st do Wisdom better Service far!
Go mingle with the Dewdrop on that Rose,
Thus do I hallow thee to Joy, and give
Thee back to Nature, even as my Soul
Is mingled oncemore with this lovely Whole,
Partaking of its Meaning and its Calm!
Unconscious that the Shadow of a Grief
Had rested on it, as the Sun, now from
Yon' Cloud just passing, still and unobscured!
I call the Dead from out their Graves, and kiss
The Lips which now are cold, and by my Side
Sit the belovëd Forms of early Days,
As they were wont to do. I still enjoy,
In spite of Death, all that I once possessed:
For all that we have felt, and thought, and loved,
Abides with us, and in our Souls we build
The lovelier World, which we enrich with all
The Stores of our past Being, with all Forms
Of Beauty, and all Sounds of early Joy:
And like our Maker we have Power to say,
«Let there be Light, and there is Light.» No Thing
That ever has delighted us, is lost;
The Hope which oft has made the Heart to throb,
Will visit it again, yea, we ourselves
Can realize it, tho' the outward Life
Deny it a Fulfilment; we can fill
The Heart with Joy by it, and how, how then

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Can it be better realized? for so
Long as we hope, the Thing we hope for is
A Joy to us: and tho' we have not it,
Have we not all the Joy which it could give?
And is not that the best Part of it? yea!
It might be realized, and then that Joy
Would be like to a Flower, whose rich Scent
Had filled the Air afar, 'till drawing near
We pluck and crush it in the little Space
Of our poor mortal Hand, and for but one
Brief Moment smelling it, behold it fade,
Leaving the disenchanted Air forlorn,
The cold, prosaic Breath of weekday Life!