 | Christ's Company and Other Poems |  |
154
Ode to Joy.
Too long hast thou been lost; the cup has left
My pallid lips; too bitter overlong
The draught had grown; a hideous poison eft
Swam upwards towards the quaffing mouth, a wrong
Was done by nature's nectar to my youth;
So with us all; a pallid spectral troop,
Whose thoughts are grey ere age be come in sooth,
We sit together, and together stoop,
Hiding with hands our faces, when the cloud
Of memory from the deep with thunderous rain
Swells up against us; then, ah, then we shroud
Our faces from the iron-driving pain,
In horror bowed.
My pallid lips; too bitter overlong
The draught had grown; a hideous poison eft
Swam upwards towards the quaffing mouth, a wrong
Was done by nature's nectar to my youth;
So with us all; a pallid spectral troop,
Whose thoughts are grey ere age be come in sooth,
We sit together, and together stoop,
Hiding with hands our faces, when the cloud
Of memory from the deep with thunderous rain
Swells up against us; then, ah, then we shroud
Our faces from the iron-driving pain,
In horror bowed.
A ghostly company, be sure, are we;
At thought of joy our eyes are full of tears;
We cannot walk with lovers on the lea,
We dare not have sweet music in our ears:
We toiled through spring for summer's golden sheaf,
And for our harvest found we hemlock strewn;
Ah, why, when we were cursed beyond belief,
For other hearts should Fortune keep her boon?
Not so, believe us, sorrow is the lot
Of all who look for joy beneath the moon;
Come, pace the shore that leads thee to our grot,
While o'er blue waters dies the bygone tune,
Rejoicing not.
At thought of joy our eyes are full of tears;
We cannot walk with lovers on the lea,
We dare not have sweet music in our ears:
155
And for our harvest found we hemlock strewn;
Ah, why, when we were cursed beyond belief,
For other hearts should Fortune keep her boon?
Not so, believe us, sorrow is the lot
Of all who look for joy beneath the moon;
Come, pace the shore that leads thee to our grot,
While o'er blue waters dies the bygone tune,
Rejoicing not.
Behold the white clouds roll along the blue,
And like the clouds do flocks o'erspread the plain;
And like them winds the forest out of view;
Shall not Joy's chariot come with splendid train,
And he descend and walk the living air,
With Melody and Peace, and Happy Love,
Wing-footed, rosy-limbed, with myrtle rare
And olive crowned from old Eleusis' grove?
Ah, no, the fury night will soon be here;
She comes with storms that drive the flocks away,
And takes the large free clouds to make her bier,
And rends the leaves; no longer youth can stay
Nor joy appear.
And like the clouds do flocks o'erspread the plain;
And like them winds the forest out of view;
Shall not Joy's chariot come with splendid train,
And he descend and walk the living air,
With Melody and Peace, and Happy Love,
Wing-footed, rosy-limbed, with myrtle rare
And olive crowned from old Eleusis' grove?
Ah, no, the fury night will soon be here;
She comes with storms that drive the flocks away,
And takes the large free clouds to make her bier,
And rends the leaves; no longer youth can stay
Nor joy appear.
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