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115
“KÈYF”
What is this numbing torpor that pervades
Soul, sense, and frame? and what this waking dream
Wherein men pass, like unsubstantial shades
Athwart my sight? Hath some Lethean stream
Engulfed my spirit? . . . Is my heart out-burn'd
To pulseless ashes? Love, Ambition, Hate,
Where are ye fled? What magic pow'r hath turn'd
All the keen impulses that animate
Intenser natures to this growing sense
Of aimless impotence? . . . The days go by,
A few more such, and we must journey hence
And be no more remember'd. Do I sigh
For so sad fate, lament the common lot,
The condemnation which we share with all
Who live and breathe? Nay, I lament it not.
Am I not dead already? Can so small
A transformation move me? . . . True, I know
That which I call my heart goes beating on,
But Life, as Life was once, with fervid glow
Of passionate abandonment, is gone
Maybe for evermore! . . . Yet, would I end
This equable placidity of mood
And brave again the ills that might transcend? . . .
Nay! this is rest, and surely rest is good!
Soul, sense, and frame? and what this waking dream
Wherein men pass, like unsubstantial shades
Athwart my sight? Hath some Lethean stream
Engulfed my spirit? . . . Is my heart out-burn'd
To pulseless ashes? Love, Ambition, Hate,
Where are ye fled? What magic pow'r hath turn'd
All the keen impulses that animate
Intenser natures to this growing sense
Of aimless impotence? . . . The days go by,
A few more such, and we must journey hence
And be no more remember'd. Do I sigh
For so sad fate, lament the common lot,
The condemnation which we share with all
116
Am I not dead already? Can so small
A transformation move me? . . . True, I know
That which I call my heart goes beating on,
But Life, as Life was once, with fervid glow
Of passionate abandonment, is gone
Maybe for evermore! . . . Yet, would I end
This equable placidity of mood
And brave again the ills that might transcend? . . .
Nay! this is rest, and surely rest is good!
Would one not think, O Love! would one not think
That here, in these old gardens, hid away
From envious eyes, upon the shady brink
Of these blue waters, thou wouldst hold thy sway,
On nights when moonbeams glisten on the stream,
And when, like ghosts of thy departed hours,
Out of the dim, mysterious darkness, gleam
The blossoms of the great magnolia flow'rs? . . .
But Love, too, sleeps, or lingers and is late;
And, did he come, for all that he might bring,
Who knows but, likewise, Jealousy and Hate,
Finding the garden-wicket on the swing,
Might force an entry, and might here abide,
With all their venomous and dreaded brood? . . .
So it were better Love should stay outside,
For this is rest, and surely rest is good!
That here, in these old gardens, hid away
From envious eyes, upon the shady brink
Of these blue waters, thou wouldst hold thy sway,
On nights when moonbeams glisten on the stream,
And when, like ghosts of thy departed hours,
Out of the dim, mysterious darkness, gleam
The blossoms of the great magnolia flow'rs? . . .
117
And, did he come, for all that he might bring,
Who knows but, likewise, Jealousy and Hate,
Finding the garden-wicket on the swing,
Might force an entry, and might here abide,
With all their venomous and dreaded brood? . . .
So it were better Love should stay outside,
For this is rest, and surely rest is good!
Thus is it with Ambition and her train,
Hope and her castles, Fancy and her dreams,
So doth this creeping apathy attain
Body and soul, till all emotion seems
Superfluous and vain; the better part
To rest, to wait, to draw unruffled breath,
Counting the calm pulsations of a heart
Serenely grateful for its living death.
For they that have no share in this repose,
How do they fare? What harvest do they reap?
To know them vainly striving in the throes
Of greed or passion makes my waking-sleep
The more contented! All the dross they prize,
What doth it profit for so brief a space?
Nay, stupefaction, in the end, were wise
If, when Death comes, we fail to know his face!
Too tired, alike, for pleasure or for pain,
I drift and dream, until I deem this best,
Resigned to all I lose, so I but gain
The priceless privilege to rest! to rest! . . .
Hope and her castles, Fancy and her dreams,
So doth this creeping apathy attain
Body and soul, till all emotion seems
Superfluous and vain; the better part
To rest, to wait, to draw unruffled breath,
Counting the calm pulsations of a heart
Serenely grateful for its living death.
For they that have no share in this repose,
How do they fare? What harvest do they reap?
118
Of greed or passion makes my waking-sleep
The more contented! All the dross they prize,
What doth it profit for so brief a space?
Nay, stupefaction, in the end, were wise
If, when Death comes, we fail to know his face!
Too tired, alike, for pleasure or for pain,
I drift and dream, until I deem this best,
Resigned to all I lose, so I but gain
The priceless privilege to rest! to rest! . . .
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