 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
LIFE.
Life in itself is nothing, save as we
Make use of, and enjoy, it: 'tis a dream
To many: they are not, but only seem;
For that which we possess not consciously,
We have not! Think'st thou the rich man can be
Truly possessor of the mighty stream
Of wealth which flows for him? his coffers teem
With absent, useless treasures: what can he
Enjoy beyond that which he needs? His eyes
Look coldly on the pomp which shuts his heart
Up in itself, from Man's best sympathies.
The magic circle, which doth all comprise,
Is only, of Man's Being here, that part
Which in his spirit's compass truly lies!
Make use of, and enjoy, it: 'tis a dream
To many: they are not, but only seem;
For that which we possess not consciously,
We have not! Think'st thou the rich man can be
Truly possessor of the mighty stream
Of wealth which flows for him? his coffers teem
With absent, useless treasures: what can he
Enjoy beyond that which he needs? His eyes
Look coldly on the pomp which shuts his heart
Up in itself, from Man's best sympathies.
The magic circle, which doth all comprise,
Is only, of Man's Being here, that part
Which in his spirit's compass truly lies!
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This magic circle too is only made
By Man's affections and his intellect,
The which, for him, from every side collect,
Like angels, missioned purposely to aid,
And who by their own service are best paid,
All pleasures that his sober thoughts affect.
Who buildeth inwardly, wise architect,
And heavenwards, although his base be laid
On earth; whose top is out of reach of chance;
From whence, as from a tower of watch, he takes
Wide range alike o'er time and circumstance,
And sees the end, and preparation makes
Aforetime: his divine inheritance
Not venturing for paltry, earthly stakes!
By Man's affections and his intellect,
The which, for him, from every side collect,
Like angels, missioned purposely to aid,
And who by their own service are best paid,
All pleasures that his sober thoughts affect.
Who buildeth inwardly, wise architect,
And heavenwards, although his base be laid
On earth; whose top is out of reach of chance;
From whence, as from a tower of watch, he takes
Wide range alike o'er time and circumstance,
And sees the end, and preparation makes
Aforetime: his divine inheritance
Not venturing for paltry, earthly stakes!
Life is but as the good which we have done
To others, as our feelings have been: which
Are mines of endless wealth, to make us rich,
Though we have nought on earth but these alone!
They weave the Zone of Beauty which is thrown
Round the whole world. Life is as is our Thought,
As we have held that glass straight or distort;
As other threads of Being with our own
Have been inwoven: is, as far as we
Have made our dream of it reality;
As far as, with the moments speeding by,
Like the waves of Eternity's vast sea,
We have moved onward, ever steadily,
In storm or calm, from all misgivings free!
To others, as our feelings have been: which
Are mines of endless wealth, to make us rich,
Though we have nought on earth but these alone!
They weave the Zone of Beauty which is thrown
Round the whole world. Life is as is our Thought,
As we have held that glass straight or distort;
As other threads of Being with our own
Have been inwoven: is, as far as we
Have made our dream of it reality;
As far as, with the moments speeding by,
Like the waves of Eternity's vast sea,
We have moved onward, ever steadily,
In storm or calm, from all misgivings free!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |