 | Thought and word |  |
17
I. Part I.
Suddenly, softly, I awoke from sleep;
My lattice open to the morning sun,
Call of a distant cuckoo, lyric notes
Of many a voice, leaf-whispers.
My lattice open to the morning sun,
Call of a distant cuckoo, lyric notes
Of many a voice, leaf-whispers.
May, once more,
Her dewy fragrant kiss, and all the love
It wakes us to,—a joyous, beauteous world!
Long shadows lying on the luminous grass;
The lilac's purple honeycombs enswathed
In freshest foliage; snowy pear-tree bloom;
Birds on our daisied lawn, or flitting swift
Through floating under boughs to elmtops fledged
Against the tenderly translucent sky;
And, through the leafage, glimpses of a realm
Of woodland slopes and vales, and distant hills
Of bright horizon. O the sweet old rapture!
May in my inmost soul awaking too.
This might be Earth's first morning, or the rise
Of that New Heav'n and Earth—
Her dewy fragrant kiss, and all the love
It wakes us to,—a joyous, beauteous world!
Long shadows lying on the luminous grass;
The lilac's purple honeycombs enswathed
In freshest foliage; snowy pear-tree bloom;
Birds on our daisied lawn, or flitting swift
Through floating under boughs to elmtops fledged
Against the tenderly translucent sky;
And, through the leafage, glimpses of a realm
Of woodland slopes and vales, and distant hills
Of bright horizon. O the sweet old rapture!
May in my inmost soul awaking too.
This might be Earth's first morning, or the rise
Of that New Heav'n and Earth—
Ah pain! ah grief!
As happy wingèd thing afloat on air
Smit with a cruel pang, down-fluttering, drops,
My heart so fell—
As happy wingèd thing afloat on air
Smit with a cruel pang, down-fluttering, drops,
My heart so fell—
They say “There is No God!”
Evil May-day, by my account. Long since,
Whispers of bale were rife; dark prophecies
And dim forebodings brought a passing qualm,
A momentary shiver; that was all;
As peradventure may a man have heard
Rumour of pestilence in Eastern lands,
Of little import: “creeping westward” next:
“Within our country's border” (this is grave):
And then a pause, time slides, the man has turn'd
To his affairs and pleasures; when one day
What's this the mirror shows him?—Heaven and Hell!
The plague-spot on his tongue! His lot is drawn.
Whispers of bale were rife; dark prophecies
And dim forebodings brought a passing qualm,
A momentary shiver; that was all;
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Rumour of pestilence in Eastern lands,
Of little import: “creeping westward” next:
“Within our country's border” (this is grave):
And then a pause, time slides, the man has turn'd
To his affairs and pleasures; when one day
What's this the mirror shows him?—Heaven and Hell!
The plague-spot on his tongue! His lot is drawn.
Yes, look upon thy hands and touch thy head;
'Tis thou—that wakedst oft in other Mays,
Didst kneeling say thy pray'r, and look aloft
As into thy dear Father's face, and see
His handiwork all round thee, all done right:
The lilies of the field and the seven stars,
Beast, bird, and insect, and immortal Man.
“These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good!”—
“In wisdom hast Thou made them all.”
'Tis thou—that wakedst oft in other Mays,
Didst kneeling say thy pray'r, and look aloft
As into thy dear Father's face, and see
His handiwork all round thee, all done right:
The lilies of the field and the seven stars,
Beast, bird, and insect, and immortal Man.
“These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good!”—
“In wisdom hast Thou made them all.”
Poor fool!
Gaze round upon the flow'rs and grass and sunshine,
Bathe in their brightness, hear the senseless birds
Chatter and chirp, and be thou merry too.
All's but a dream; and why torment thyself?
—Because the plague is come. The bird is hit.
The dream is fled; and now I wake aghast.
I see this world a body without soul;
I see the flow'rs and greenery of May
A garland on a corpse. “There is No God.”
Gaze round upon the flow'rs and grass and sunshine,
Bathe in their brightness, hear the senseless birds
Chatter and chirp, and be thou merry too.
All's but a dream; and why torment thyself?
—Because the plague is come. The bird is hit.
The dream is fled; and now I wake aghast.
I see this world a body without soul;
I see the flow'rs and greenery of May
A garland on a corpse. “There is No God.”
Nay, courage! let the fearful mood pass by.
Here is no plague. Behind those branching elms
Our shady lane winds to the village green,
Its ancient cottages, its ivied tower,
With graves of twenty generations. Hark!
The dial: sturdy Labour forth has trudged
With tools in hand; Age on his doorstep greets
The friendly radiance; Childhood swarms to school
And hums like bees in clover, till the song
Heartily rises; and our week moves round,
As weeks and years and centuries have moved,
Over this English village in its vale,
Secluded from the world,—not separate.
There goes the flutter of a distant train
Speeding to the great city full of men
And men's accumulated thought and work,
With ships from every sea along her wharves.
Art thou delirious? or wilt thou count
All this, insanity—the varied life
In fields and cities, work and worship and love,
Whate'er binds men together, linking past,
Present, and future—
Here is no plague. Behind those branching elms
Our shady lane winds to the village green,
Its ancient cottages, its ivied tower,
With graves of twenty generations. Hark!
The dial: sturdy Labour forth has trudged
With tools in hand; Age on his doorstep greets
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And hums like bees in clover, till the song
Heartily rises; and our week moves round,
As weeks and years and centuries have moved,
Over this English village in its vale,
Secluded from the world,—not separate.
There goes the flutter of a distant train
Speeding to the great city full of men
And men's accumulated thought and work,
With ships from every sea along her wharves.
Art thou delirious? or wilt thou count
All this, insanity—the varied life
In fields and cities, work and worship and love,
Whate'er binds men together, linking past,
Present, and future—
O let be! let be!
No form of speech can do me any good,
My own or other men's devisal, fresh
As primrose, venerable as churchyard yew.
Having heard sentence pass'd, no other words
Can carry meaning; one brief dismal phrase
Knolls on the air—“No God!” and still—“No God!”
No form of speech can do me any good,
My own or other men's devisal, fresh
As primrose, venerable as churchyard yew.
Having heard sentence pass'd, no other words
Can carry meaning; one brief dismal phrase
Knolls on the air—“No God!” and still—“No God!”
Pretence of continuity! talk, preach,
Write books; build cities, churches, monuments;
Patch up and varnish histories, pedigrees;
Take childish titles, worship toyshop crowns;
Sustain (save when alone or with a friend)
The masquerade of dignity; pass on
Old phrases, teach them to the children; make
Your little mark, or big, as one who scribes
Two letters, or full name, or date therewith,
Upon a tree, and dies, and in a while
The tree perishes also. Vain conceit!
Swim with me, fellow-bubbles, catch fine hues
And picture-like reflections, and then burst!
The swift stream flows, the shoreless sea of forms
Melting, reshaping, seeming (since our life
Is like a flash of lightning) permanent;
But rolling ever from darkness into darkness.
God was behind that darkness once;—that sea
His effluent power. But now, there is No God.
Write books; build cities, churches, monuments;
Patch up and varnish histories, pedigrees;
Take childish titles, worship toyshop crowns;
Sustain (save when alone or with a friend)
The masquerade of dignity; pass on
Old phrases, teach them to the children; make
Your little mark, or big, as one who scribes
Two letters, or full name, or date therewith,
Upon a tree, and dies, and in a while
The tree perishes also. Vain conceit!
Swim with me, fellow-bubbles, catch fine hues
And picture-like reflections, and then burst!
The swift stream flows, the shoreless sea of forms
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Is like a flash of lightning) permanent;
But rolling ever from darkness into darkness.
God was behind that darkness once;—that sea
His effluent power. But now, there is No God.
After the first sharp pain I wrote this down
To ease awhile my heart-ache. Count not these
But idle words; for since I wotted first
Of my own being, never grief like that.
“Able to soothe all sadness but despair”
The poet sang: no finest solaces
Had any comfort. Through the dismal time
I dragg'd from sleep to sleep, groaning the while,
As one sore-wounded drags from pause to pause;
And sleep was like a swoon, or else perturb'd
With shapeless terror.
To ease awhile my heart-ache. Count not these
But idle words; for since I wotted first
Of my own being, never grief like that.
“Able to soothe all sadness but despair”
The poet sang: no finest solaces
Had any comfort. Through the dismal time
I dragg'd from sleep to sleep, groaning the while,
As one sore-wounded drags from pause to pause;
And sleep was like a swoon, or else perturb'd
With shapeless terror.
But sleep grew more calm
(I know not when or how began the change)—
And all things with it; wind and wave went down,
And life took on its ordinary look
By slow gradations. All was as before?
Not so. I was not in perpetual pain;
Only half-paralysed. Month after month,
And after that sad year, another year,
And after this, another year: I went
And came and talk'd and laugh'd, like those around me:
Only I recollected now and then,
And shiver'd, whispering to myself “No God.”
(I know not when or how began the change)—
And all things with it; wind and wave went down,
And life took on its ordinary look
By slow gradations. All was as before?
Not so. I was not in perpetual pain;
Only half-paralysed. Month after month,
And after that sad year, another year,
And after this, another year: I went
And came and talk'd and laugh'd, like those around me:
Only I recollected now and then,
And shiver'd, whispering to myself “No God.”
No God, No Soul; they are the self-same thought.
And I, that think it, turning into mire
To-morrow or next year, I care not much
What may befall a race of things like me,
A little better luck, a little worse,
As each flits by and vanishes for ever.
To-morrow will be Nothing; and To-day
That leads to it, is Next to Nothing. Go!
Laugh, weep, do what you will, eat, drink, and die—
The sad old phrase found true.
And I, that think it, turning into mire
To-morrow or next year, I care not much
What may befall a race of things like me,
A little better luck, a little worse,
As each flits by and vanishes for ever.
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That leads to it, is Next to Nothing. Go!
Laugh, weep, do what you will, eat, drink, and die—
The sad old phrase found true.
Is't selfishness
Thus craves for God, that God may give us life
After this life? New life be as it may.
That irks me nothing. It is this my life
I would not lose, the life within this life.
And I have lost it, if there be No God.
Thus craves for God, that God may give us life
After this life? New life be as it may.
That irks me nothing. It is this my life
I would not lose, the life within this life.
And I have lost it, if there be No God.
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