English Roses by F. Harald Williams [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
THIS WAY LIES MADNESS |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | English Roses |  |
THIS WAY LIES MADNESS
Wild night not half so wild in terror
As is the dreadful thought
Which drives me with its hounding error,
Into Eternal Nought;
O robe me round within thy bound
Of awful joy and fear profound,
That I may rest upon thy breast
This heart with the wide world opprest;
And thus at last may wholly cease
Awhile from sounds of sadness,
And buried in thee find release
From this pursuing madness.
As is the dreadful thought
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Into Eternal Nought;
O robe me round within thy bound
Of awful joy and fear profound,
That I may rest upon thy breast
This heart with the wide world opprest;
And thus at last may wholly cease
Awhile from sounds of sadness,
And buried in thee find release
From this pursuing madness.
I know—yet whence have I the knowledge
Unguessed by holy Paul,
Untought in cloister and in College?—
That nothing is at all.
I know this sight is mocking light
And there was never day or night,
And what I see yet cannot be
For mortal and is not for me;
And what I fancy that I hear
Is but a mocking message,
The music murmuring in my ear
Has neither past nor presage.
Unguessed by holy Paul,
Untought in cloister and in College?—
That nothing is at all.
I know this sight is mocking light
And there was never day or night,
And what I see yet cannot be
For mortal and is not for me;
And what I fancy that I hear
Is but a mocking message,
The music murmuring in my ear
Has neither past nor presage.
I know, by ghastly inspiration,
There is no solid earth,
The raptures of our revelations
Delusions are of dearth;
I know tall towers are false as flowers
That only cheat the charmèd hours,
There is no sky, no land to fly,
No echo of Eternity;
No matter ever was, or mind
To wear an outward clothing,
And every soul is dead and blind
In this Eternal nothing.
There is no solid earth,
The raptures of our revelations
Delusions are of dearth;
I know tall towers are false as flowers
That only cheat the charmèd hours,
There is no sky, no land to fly,
No echo of Eternity;
No matter ever was, or mind
To wear an outward clothing,
And every soul is dead and blind
In this Eternal nothing.
I know the human and Divinity
Are but a passing thought,
And all the wonders of Infinity,
Begin and end in Nought;
And what I know of sham and show
Within me and above, below,
The tightening chain, the lengthening pain,
Alike and equally are vain;
The patience like a garment wrapt,
Dear bliss and dearer sorrow,
The splendid sins and hopes unmapt,
Are phantoms with no morrow.
Are but a passing thought,
And all the wonders of Infinity,
Begin and end in Nought;
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Within me and above, below,
The tightening chain, the lengthening pain,
Alike and equally are vain;
The patience like a garment wrapt,
Dear bliss and dearer sorrow,
The splendid sins and hopes unmapt,
Are phantoms with no morrow.
I know my dearest ones are bubbles
And but a tender trick,
To vanish with my gains or troubles
At the first ruder prick;
I know the kiss and serpent's hiss
And horrors churned by the abyss,
The harlot's gawd, the blame or laud,
Are everyone a hideous fraud;
And God and Devil if they live
For our dim love or loathing,
Are less than shades most fugitive
And just Eternal Nothing.
And but a tender trick,
To vanish with my gains or troubles
At the first ruder prick;
I know the kiss and serpent's hiss
And horrors churned by the abyss,
The harlot's gawd, the blame or laud,
Are everyone a hideous fraud;
And God and Devil if they live
For our dim love or loathing,
Are less than shades most fugitive
And just Eternal Nothing.
I know the sharpest pang or feeling
With which my body thrills,
Is only what appears unreeling
Of unexistent ills;
For stillness, strife, and death and life,
The sacrificial cord and knife,
The star that gleams on mountain streams,
Are not so much as madmen's dreams;
I know by teaching rude and rough
And every day's acrostic,
I do not even know enough
To know I'm an Agnostic.
With which my body thrills,
Is only what appears unreeling
Of unexistent ills;
For stillness, strife, and death and life,
The sacrificial cord and knife,
The star that gleams on mountain streams,
Are not so much as madmen's dreams;
I know by teaching rude and rough
And every day's acrostic,
I do not even know enough
To know I'm an Agnostic.
Wild night, not half so wild with scourges
Of hunting wind and rain,
As is the thought like frantic surges
So branded on my brain;
O unto thee no longer free
From dark to dark I vainly flee,
Who know that all is but the pall
Of nothing that can rise or fall;
Entomb me and my cruel thought
Behind thy friendly curtain,
With thee in that Eternal Nought
Which is the one thing certain.
Of hunting wind and rain,
As is the thought like frantic surges
So branded on my brain;
O unto thee no longer free
From dark to dark I vainly flee,
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Of nothing that can rise or fall;
Entomb me and my cruel thought
Behind thy friendly curtain,
With thee in that Eternal Nought
Which is the one thing certain.
| English Roses | |