 | Poems: Second Series |  |
61
ΑΠΑΘΕΙΑ.
O passionately passionless—
O strong to play thy lonely part—
Speak for a moment and confess
The secret of thine inmost heart:
What passion taught thee to control
The surging passions of thy soul?
O strong to play thy lonely part—
Speak for a moment and confess
The secret of thine inmost heart:
What passion taught thee to control
The surging passions of thy soul?
Thine eyes are never bright with hope,
Nor clouded with a gathering tear:
Thou art not blind where others grope:
Thy face is pale, but not with fear:
And thou hast trampled down desire,
And quenched love's own triumphant fire.
Nor clouded with a gathering tear:
Thou art not blind where others grope:
Thy face is pale, but not with fear:
And thou hast trampled down desire,
And quenched love's own triumphant fire.
And when the great stream surges by,
The wild chaotic waves of life,
Whose myriad passions meet and die
In eddies of unceasing strife—
I see thee gaze, with not a trace
Of feeling on thine alien face.
The wild chaotic waves of life,
Whose myriad passions meet and die
In eddies of unceasing strife—
I see thee gaze, with not a trace
Of feeling on thine alien face.
62
Thou hast no tear for those who weep,
No smile for joy, no sigh for pain:
Whate'er the scene, thy features keep
Their look of calm and cold disdain,
Unmoved, save when thy lips appear
Curled in a momentary sneer.
No smile for joy, no sigh for pain:
Whate'er the scene, thy features keep
Their look of calm and cold disdain,
Unmoved, save when thy lips appear
Curled in a momentary sneer.
A passing sneer—and yet it tells
That Nature holds her wonted sway,
And dooms the spirit that rebels
Through his rebellion to obey,
Keeping, whate'er the course he take,
The very laws that he would break.
That Nature holds her wonted sway,
And dooms the spirit that rebels
Through his rebellion to obey,
Keeping, whate'er the course he take,
The very laws that he would break.
The springs of feeling still would flow,
Though every outlet were denied:
The baffled currents, swift or slow,
Would cleave a way with mingled tide,
And move with concentrated force
In one deep channelled water course.
Though every outlet were denied:
The baffled currents, swift or slow,
Would cleave a way with mingled tide,
And move with concentrated force
In one deep channelled water course.
Or, as the flooding sea drives back
Each eager stream that eddies down
From distant hills, where clouds are black,
With torrent waters swift and brown,—
And drowns the murmurs of their wrath,
And buries deep their foam and froth.
Each eager stream that eddies down
From distant hills, where clouds are black,
With torrent waters swift and brown,—
And drowns the murmurs of their wrath,
And buries deep their foam and froth.
63
So surely if each stream is dumb,
Each wave that ever pulsed in thee,
Some stiller, mightier tide has come
From depths of some mysterious sea—
The passion of thy lonely mood—
Thy self-concentred solitude.
Each wave that ever pulsed in thee,
Some stiller, mightier tide has come
From depths of some mysterious sea—
The passion of thy lonely mood—
Thy self-concentred solitude.
Or on a wan autumnal day,
A weird and melancholy land
Stretches its weary leagues away—
Meadow or cornfield, heath or sand:
Whose far blue undulations lie
Against a grey cloud-dappled sky.
A weird and melancholy land
Stretches its weary leagues away—
Meadow or cornfield, heath or sand:
Whose far blue undulations lie
Against a grey cloud-dappled sky.
The threatening rain forbears to fall:
Cold mists forbid the faintest ray:
Nor rushing wind, nor rising squall
Troubles the slumber of the day:
And nature holds her every force
Chained and arrested in its course.
Cold mists forbid the faintest ray:
Nor rushing wind, nor rising squall
Troubles the slumber of the day:
And nature holds her every force
Chained and arrested in its course.
Yet in that swoon, that dead repose,
That universal hush of strife,
There dwells, too deep for passion's throes,
A still intensity of life,
And never flood of light or sound
Stirs depths of feeling so profound.
That universal hush of strife,
There dwells, too deep for passion's throes,
A still intensity of life,
And never flood of light or sound
Stirs depths of feeling so profound.
64
So unbetrayed by tear or sigh
Thy over-mastering passion sleeps,
Whose very stillness is the cry
Sent up from its unfathomed deeps—
Whose storm has left its truest trace
In the chill slumber of thy face.
Thy over-mastering passion sleeps,
Whose very stillness is the cry
Sent up from its unfathomed deeps—
Whose storm has left its truest trace
In the chill slumber of thy face.
Long since the world disowned thy creed,
And drove thee forth in bitter scorn,
And scattered to the winds thy seed,
And cursed the fruit that thou hadst borne:—
Long since—and I, who learn of time,
Shall I not curse thee in my rhyme?
And drove thee forth in bitter scorn,
And scattered to the winds thy seed,
And cursed the fruit that thou hadst borne:—
Long since—and I, who learn of time,
Shall I not curse thee in my rhyme?
I know not: in a distant age
The Lord of thought's divining rod—
The prince of reason—the world-sage
Dared over bold to dream of God
As alien, passionless, alone,
Blind to all being but his own.
The Lord of thought's divining rod—
The prince of reason—the world-sage
Dared over bold to dream of God
As alien, passionless, alone,
Blind to all being but his own.
But that is past and buried now:
We worship Christ who died for men—
The man-God with the bleeding brow,
Whose secret none had whispered then:
Our aims are moulded to his will,
Yet half his message slumbers still.
We worship Christ who died for men—
The man-God with the bleeding brow,
Whose secret none had whispered then:
Our aims are moulded to his will,
Yet half his message slumbers still.
65
The jarring creeds forget their strife,
And with harmonious accents cry
“Flee from the self-concentred life;
To seek thy welfare is to die;
But follow outward ends and give
Thy life to men if thou would'st live.”
And with harmonious accents cry
“Flee from the self-concentred life;
To seek thy welfare is to die;
But follow outward ends and give
Thy life to men if thou would'st live.”
I listen, with a heart the while
Too quick to stir to every breath—
To win a gleam from every smile—
A chill from every shade of death:
A thousand mingled voices say,
‘Here and here only lies the way.’
Too quick to stir to every breath—
To win a gleam from every smile—
A chill from every shade of death:
A thousand mingled voices say,
‘Here and here only lies the way.’
I listen, and I turn aside
And gaze upon thy face of stone,
And read the passion of its pride,
Until its sneer is half my own,
And I am strong to seek again
The turmoil of the ways of men.
And gaze upon thy face of stone,
And read the passion of its pride,
Until its sneer is half my own,
And I am strong to seek again
The turmoil of the ways of men.
| Poems: Second Series | |