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 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
Ah, if the mind could sometimes be content
To cease from its male madness, its desire
To radiate outward, and in passive rest
Receive from Nature's ever-waiting arms
Energy, fire, and life! We blind ourselves
With briny sweat-drops, even more than tears.
Ever with burning haste we scorch our souls,
And set their compass-needles whirring round
So they can never keenly point to the pole.
There 's such a clash and jar kept up within,
Hissing of nerve-steam, iron purposes
Clanging on one another, who can hear
The sweet, sweet silver voices from afar?
Ah, let a man but listen! Have we not
Two ears for silence, one small mouth for noise?
Listen until we catch the key, and know
Our note, and then chime in—not rave and run,
And shout our frantic orders, just as though
We were the leader of the orchestra,
Not little separate voices; could we wait,
Each in his corner, conning quietly
His part, the chords would be the sweeter for it.
To cease from its male madness, its desire
To radiate outward, and in passive rest
Receive from Nature's ever-waiting arms
Energy, fire, and life! We blind ourselves
With briny sweat-drops, even more than tears.
Ever with burning haste we scorch our souls,
And set their compass-needles whirring round
66
There 's such a clash and jar kept up within,
Hissing of nerve-steam, iron purposes
Clanging on one another, who can hear
The sweet, sweet silver voices from afar?
Ah, let a man but listen! Have we not
Two ears for silence, one small mouth for noise?
Listen until we catch the key, and know
Our note, and then chime in—not rave and run,
And shout our frantic orders, just as though
We were the leader of the orchestra,
Not little separate voices; could we wait,
Each in his corner, conning quietly
His part, the chords would be the sweeter for it.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |