 | The Autumn Garden |  |
7
Sursum
The Alpine pasture stirs
With rattling grasshoppers,
Some green, some gold, some gray with crimson wings;
Antic or grim or fair,
They glitter everywhere,
Without a path or aim, brisk foolish blundering things.
With rattling grasshoppers,
Some green, some gold, some gray with crimson wings;
Antic or grim or fair,
They glitter everywhere,
Without a path or aim, brisk foolish blundering things.
On stiff legs issuing forth,
They fling to greet the North,
But veer by South in air, and perch by West;
Nor o'er those horny eyes
Floats shadow of surprise
To find the impelling hope so instantly repressed.
They fling to greet the North,
But veer by South in air, and perch by West;
Nor o'er those horny eyes
Floats shadow of surprise
To find the impelling hope so instantly repressed.
Thus, with no goal or plan,
The headlong race of man
Bounds in the void at each uncertain sign,
Take grass-flowers for the stars,
Ants' holes for hell's black bars,
The lustrous eyes of mice for Providence Divine.
The headlong race of man
Bounds in the void at each uncertain sign,
Take grass-flowers for the stars,
Ants' holes for hell's black bars,
The lustrous eyes of mice for Providence Divine.
Yet, with a knotted scourge,
The instinctive forces urge
Their helpless slaves to leap in hollow air;
No matter what the flight,
Nor where the feet alight,
To leap and pause and leap is all our human care.
The instinctive forces urge
Their helpless slaves to leap in hollow air;
8
Nor where the feet alight,
To leap and pause and leap is all our human care.
Nor at this fate would I,
Shrill insect, wail and cry,
Demand a goal, and shake the stems with rage,
Claim that our fretful race
Should know their hour and place,
Should whirr with faultless aim across their grassy stage.
Shrill insect, wail and cry,
Demand a goal, and shake the stems with rage,
Claim that our fretful race
Should know their hour and place,
Should whirr with faultless aim across their grassy stage.
Rather for spurs that prick
My dulness to the quick,
Whither I know not, forcing upward flight—
For blind desires to rise
Toward blank phantasmal skies,
To vault in fruitless curve beneath a larger light,—
My dulness to the quick,
Whither I know not, forcing upward flight—
For blind desires to rise
Toward blank phantasmal skies,
To vault in fruitless curve beneath a larger light,—
For instincts vague and wide—
So humbling to my pride—
I thank the Will I own not, yet adore;
Content to leap astray,
Content to lose my way,
While still I hold in joy the mastering wish to soar.
So humbling to my pride—
I thank the Will I own not, yet adore;
Content to leap astray,
Content to lose my way,
While still I hold in joy the mastering wish to soar.
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