 | Poems of the war |  |
191
IDLENESS.
If I do no more than this,
I do something grand, I wis.
If I do no more than slumber
Where these locust-blossoms cumber
The young grass, while in and out
Voyage the humming bees about;
And the fields of new-turned land,
In long brown waves on every hand,
Mix their strong life-giving smell
With the violets of the dell,
Till I, half drunk with country gladness,
Forget the moody city-sadness;—
I do something grand, I wis.
If I do no more than slumber
Where these locust-blossoms cumber
The young grass, while in and out
Voyage the humming bees about;
And the fields of new-turned land,
In long brown waves on every hand,
Mix their strong life-giving smell
With the violets of the dell,
Till I, half drunk with country gladness,
Forget the moody city-sadness;—
If I do no more than gaze,
Through the flimsy spring-tide haze,
Far into the sapphire deeps,
Where white cloud after white cloud creeps;
Or watch the triumph of the sun,
When his western stand is won,
And crimson stain and golden bar
Are drawn across the evening-star;
And slowly broaden on my sight
The glories of the deeper night,
Till I, o'ertaken with boding sorrow,
Shrink from inevitable to-morrow;—
Through the flimsy spring-tide haze,
192
Where white cloud after white cloud creeps;
Or watch the triumph of the sun,
When his western stand is won,
And crimson stain and golden bar
Are drawn across the evening-star;
And slowly broaden on my sight
The glories of the deeper night,
Till I, o'ertaken with boding sorrow,
Shrink from inevitable to-morrow;—
If I do no more than look
Into that dark and awful book
Which, like a prophet's fatal scroll,
Lies open in my deathless soul;
Whose pictured joy and pictured woe
Mean more than any man may know;
Close secret, hidden in death and birth,
Reflex and prophecy of earth;
With earth's sweet sounds and scented blooms,
Its splendors and its solemn glooms,
All things the senses care about,
As clear within us as without;
As if from us creation grew
In some strange way, we one time knew:—
If I do no more than this,
I do something grand, I wis.
Into that dark and awful book
Which, like a prophet's fatal scroll,
Lies open in my deathless soul;
Whose pictured joy and pictured woe
Mean more than any man may know;
Close secret, hidden in death and birth,
Reflex and prophecy of earth;
193
Its splendors and its solemn glooms,
All things the senses care about,
As clear within us as without;
As if from us creation grew
In some strange way, we one time knew:—
If I do no more than this,
I do something grand, I wis.
| Poems of the war | |