Poems By Edward Dowden |
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“THE TOP OF A HILL CALLED CLEAR”
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 | Poems |  |
126
“THE TOP OF A HILL CALLED CLEAR”
(In sight of the Celestial City)
And all my days led on to this! the days
Of pallid light, of springs no sun would warm,
Of chilling rain autumnal, which decays
High woods while veering south the quick wings swarm,
The days of hot desire, of broken dreaming,
Mechanic toil, poor pride that was but seeming,
And bleeding feet, and sun-smit flowerless ways.
Of pallid light, of springs no sun would warm,
Of chilling rain autumnal, which decays
High woods while veering south the quick wings swarm,
The days of hot desire, of broken dreaming,
Mechanic toil, poor pride that was but seeming,
And bleeding feet, and sun-smit flowerless ways.
Below me spreads a sea of tranquil light,
No blue cloud thunder-laden, but pure air
Shot through and through with sunshine; from this height
A man might cast himself in joy's despair,
And find unhoped, to bear him lest he fall,
Swift succouring wings, and hands angelical,
And circling of soft eyes, and foreheads bright.
No blue cloud thunder-laden, but pure air
Shot through and through with sunshine; from this height
A man might cast himself in joy's despair,
And find unhoped, to bear him lest he fall,
Swift succouring wings, and hands angelical,
And circling of soft eyes, and foreheads bright.
Under me light, and light is o'er my head,
And awful heaven and heaven to left and right;
In all His worlds this spot unvisited
God kept, save by the winging of keen light,
And the dread gaze of stars, and morning's wan
Virginity, for me a living man,
Living, not borne among the enfranchised dead.
And awful heaven and heaven to left and right;
In all His worlds this spot unvisited
God kept, save by the winging of keen light,
And the dread gaze of stars, and morning's wan
127
Living, not borne among the enfranchised dead.
New life,—not death! No glow the senses cast
Across the spirit, no pleasure shoots o'er me
Its scattering flaw, no words may I hold fast
Here, where God's breath streams inexhaustibly;
But conquest stern is mine, a will made sane,
Life's vision wide and calm, a supreme pain,
An absolute joy; and love the first and last.
Across the spirit, no pleasure shoots o'er me
Its scattering flaw, no words may I hold fast
Here, where God's breath streams inexhaustibly;
But conquest stern is mine, a will made sane,
Life's vision wide and calm, a supreme pain,
An absolute joy; and love the first and last.
| Poems | |