 | The Poems of A. C. Benson |  |
77
SELF
I
This is my chiefest torment, that behind
This brave and subtle spirit, this swift brain,
There sits and shivers, in a cell of pain,
A central atom, melancholy, blind,
This brave and subtle spirit, this swift brain,
There sits and shivers, in a cell of pain,
A central atom, melancholy, blind,
Which is myself: tho' when spring suns are kind,
And rich leaves riot in the genial rain,
I cheat him dreaming, slip my rigorous chain,
Free as a skiff before the dancing wind.
And rich leaves riot in the genial rain,
I cheat him dreaming, slip my rigorous chain,
Free as a skiff before the dancing wind.
Then he awakes, and vexed that I am glad,
In dreary malice strains some nimble chord,
Pricks his thin claw within some tingling nerve:
And all at once I falter, start, and swerve
From my true course, and fall, unmanned and sad,
Into gross darkness, tangible, abhorred.
In dreary malice strains some nimble chord,
Pricks his thin claw within some tingling nerve:
And all at once I falter, start, and swerve
From my true course, and fall, unmanned and sad,
Into gross darkness, tangible, abhorred.
78
II
Yet I can send my thought from sun to sun,
Behind the stars, beyond the eternal night;
Pierce through the whirling spheres of fervent light,
Or nearer roam: hither and thither run;
Behind the stars, beyond the eternal night;
Pierce through the whirling spheres of fervent light,
Or nearer roam: hither and thither run;
Strain to a sharp and icy summit, thread
The poisonous depth of some hot forest maze,
Or haunt the dark sea-bottom's glimmering ways,
Where sunken wrecks hang silent overhead.
The poisonous depth of some hot forest maze,
Or haunt the dark sea-bottom's glimmering ways,
Where sunken wrecks hang silent overhead.
Now, in a sun-dried city of the south,
Linger through dusty vineyards, branching palms;—
The shrill cicalas chirping in the drouth;—
Or swim by coral islets, floating free
And eager, parting with imagined arms
The crystal rollers of a sapphire sea.
Linger through dusty vineyards, branching palms;—
The shrill cicalas chirping in the drouth;—
Or swim by coral islets, floating free
And eager, parting with imagined arms
The crystal rollers of a sapphire sea.
III
Or I constrain the poets to my call;—
With Homer, staff in hand, and lyre on back,
Stumbling and sightless on the upland track,
Or praised and honoured in the echoing hall,
With Homer, staff in hand, and lyre on back,
Stumbling and sightless on the upland track,
Or praised and honoured in the echoing hall,
79
Hear from his lips the rolling thunders fall;
Or sit with Virgil in the orchard-edge,
Hearing the bees hum in the privet hedge,
And deep-mouthed cattle lowing from the stall.
Or sit with Virgil in the orchard-edge,
Hearing the bees hum in the privet hedge,
And deep-mouthed cattle lowing from the stall.
Or I can follow Una's peerless knight
Riding alone in mountain solitudes,
Where Awbey leaps from Bally-howra hill;
Or trace the clear impetuous Rotha rill,
With Wordsworth, mouthing music in the woods,
His eyes transfigured with a sacred light.
Riding alone in mountain solitudes,
Where Awbey leaps from Bally-howra hill;
Or trace the clear impetuous Rotha rill,
With Wordsworth, mouthing music in the woods,
His eyes transfigured with a sacred light.
IV
Or I can trace the cycles that have been,
See silent priests, dead Cæsars, face to face;
Laugh with old wits, with serious statesmen pace,
Peep unobserved at many a secret scene.
See silent priests, dead Cæsars, face to face;
Laugh with old wits, with serious statesmen pace,
Peep unobserved at many a secret scene.
Thence through wild woods my dreaming way I take,
Through ancient cities piled of ponderous stones,
Or dripping caverns carpeted with bones,
To wattled huts isled in a mountain lake.
Through ancient cities piled of ponderous stones,
Or dripping caverns carpeted with bones,
To wattled huts isled in a mountain lake.
Backwards, still backwards, till the glowing earth
Lose beast and tree, and show her haggard scars;
To chaos, and the chill sun's nebulous birth:—
Above, beneath, the flaming æons roll:—
Still in its cold cell sits the brooding soul,
More to itself than thirty thousand stars.
Lose beast and tree, and show her haggard scars;
To chaos, and the chill sun's nebulous birth:—
Above, beneath, the flaming æons roll:—
Still in its cold cell sits the brooding soul,
More to itself than thirty thousand stars.
| The Poems of A. C. Benson | |