Poems with Fables in Prose By Frederic Herbert Trench |
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| 13. | 13: TO AROLILIA, URGING HIM |
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 | Poems with Fables in Prose |  |
31
13: TO AROLILIA, URGING HIM
Not laurels,—were they lying at my feet!
Let hot-foot boys hunt the gold leaves of Fame.
Received at thy hands, once they had been sweet,
But not now; less than silence is a name.
Let hot-foot boys hunt the gold leaves of Fame.
Received at thy hands, once they had been sweet,
But not now; less than silence is a name.
Fame! When thy thousand graces ask no praise—
When all that perfect soul shall disappear,
And leave no footprint of thy lovely ways
Save in the desperate heart that held thee dear!
When all that perfect soul shall disappear,
And leave no footprint of thy lovely ways
Save in the desperate heart that held thee dear!
Namelessly still, and yet all Fame surviving
Beyond Death's baulk thy very self shalt move—
All that's most thou in thee light on the living,
Never to hear of thee, nor of thy love.
Beyond Death's baulk thy very self shalt move—
All that's most thou in thee light on the living,
Never to hear of thee, nor of thy love.
We once found, where the Alpine forests blow,
Columbine floating, heavenliest dreamer there;
Nothing of its own beauty could it know,
And for nothing less than for our praises care.
Columbine floating, heavenliest dreamer there;
Nothing of its own beauty could it know,
And for nothing less than for our praises care.
32
That chalice would not last! O, had it choice
'Twould drain at once the whole illumin'd sky
That enters it in rushing light and voice,
To change into an “I” greater than “I”!
'Twould drain at once the whole illumin'd sky
That enters it in rushing light and voice,
To change into an “I” greater than “I”!
Thy leaves ask not to last! Too close, too fine,
That glow of the Absolute, inhung, they feel;
The quick breath-sweeping thrill of the divine—
Its very warmth left fresh on thee for seal!
That glow of the Absolute, inhung, they feel;
The quick breath-sweeping thrill of the divine—
Its very warmth left fresh on thee for seal!
What's Fame to me, when thou wilt smile and pass
Dew-like? For mean lives trumpets shall be blown;
Thou wilt go wandering through the gate of grass,
And thy place after thee be all unknown.
Dew-like? For mean lives trumpets shall be blown;
Thou wilt go wandering through the gate of grass,
And thy place after thee be all unknown.
| Poems with Fables in Prose | |