Reuben and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

I'd give the world, were it mine, for a knottier brain,
Gnarly and oaken, which, despite the winds,
Keeps its own bent. This willow-twig of mine
Needs but a breath to warp it. True, it seems
Stalwart, and many take it for a staff;
But being inwardly mere rind, it goes
All with the pressure, and becomes no staff.
My acts are not my offspring, but the bastards
Of circumstance and accident. Our wills
Should be the parents of our yeas and nays;
But mine, alas! is barren and adopts
The wandering yea or nay of any one.—
I would decide between two ways to act,
And fish around me for the merest fin
To move me on towards either; or I keep
Deciding till belating Time decides.

Thus far—halfway at least—I've come, and yet,
Whether to go or not remains my doubt.
My arguments, like corncrakes, lead me on,

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Croaking conclusions at my very feet;
But when I think I have them, they are gone.
My mind's a tangled field through which they run,
Defying clear perception. I can see
Only those arguments that come like larks,
Clear throated from above me. Anything
Were potenter than reasons from within.
Some stale acquaintance, passing either way,
Would take me with him, or a threaten'd rain
End all my indecision. But the road
Shows not a foot, is sacred to young linnets,
Hopping across it, light as breezy leaves:
The sky is spotless, and the afternoon
Glides like a molten river to the west.

Well, I will go to please kind sister Jane:
Yet will I not—she has designs on me.
She woos for me, makes love on my behalf,
And would transfer the progress she has made.
Thanks, gentle sister!—but the heart must grow
Its own flower love, and mine's already blown.—
The harmonies of love surpass all thought,
As do those tints that hold the gazer's eye
Enamour'd in the bosom of a rose.
We only know they are—wherefore and how,
No one shall ever know. I cannot love
A thing for its perfections: some sweet fault
May better fill my imperfectness of soul:
And though Eliza's virtues rise like day
Over the black and starry Margaret,
These eyes are so enheaven'd with my night,

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They cannot look on day. My gorgeous night!
My Margaret with the planetary eyes
That rule my heaven of love! I have no heart,
No, not an inch, for any one but thee.
I'll go a little farther; some kind fate
May either send me back, or lead me on.

[Exit.