 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
115
DEAN SWIFT
Alas, alas! sad, bitter, loving man;
With jests for others, to thyself least kind;
That didst with studied boldness dare to scan
The shadowy horrors of the darkened mind.
With jests for others, to thyself least kind;
That didst with studied boldness dare to scan
The shadowy horrors of the darkened mind.
A heart that ached for love, by nature made
'Neath loving lips to grow more sweet and mild,
Mutely itself upon the altar laid,
From that true self by truer self exiled.
'Neath loving lips to grow more sweet and mild,
Mutely itself upon the altar laid,
From that true self by truer self exiled.
As that prophetic roll, upon the lip
Of acrid savour, Heaven's own manna proved;
Ay! there was sweetness here, 'mid stain and slip
Of word and thought, still yearning to be loved!
Of acrid savour, Heaven's own manna proved;
Ay! there was sweetness here, 'mid stain and slip
Of word and thought, still yearning to be loved!
Thou didst look love and sorrow in the face,
And sorrow choosing, didst but love defer,
And love hath crowned thee in a calmer place,
With her who soothed thy aching life, and her
And sorrow choosing, didst but love defer,
And love hath crowned thee in a calmer place,
With her who soothed thy aching life, and her
Whose weakness made thee cruel, who designed
A jealous thrust and fell upon the steel;
Let those who blame the unforgiving mind
Learn from thy caustic silence how to feel.
A jealous thrust and fell upon the steel;
Let those who blame the unforgiving mind
Learn from thy caustic silence how to feel.
116
Alas! what means for us thy troubled face?
The pure in heart still striving to be foul?
The generous spirit scheming for a place?
The filthy jest that masked the serious soul?
The pure in heart still striving to be foul?
The generous spirit scheming for a place?
The filthy jest that masked the serious soul?
This: that our days are wholly incomplete;—
Some baseness mars them, some unbanished taint,
That clogs in miry ways the aspiring feet,
And specks the robe of many a willing saint.
Some baseness mars them, some unbanished taint,
That clogs in miry ways the aspiring feet,
And specks the robe of many a willing saint.
We, in the dust of some disordered room,
For our dropt treasure peer and grope aghast;
Ah, if the hand encounter through the gloom
The golden circle, seize it, hold it fast!
For our dropt treasure peer and grope aghast;
Ah, if the hand encounter through the gloom
The golden circle, seize it, hold it fast!
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |