 | Ballads and Lyrics of Socialism: 1883-1908 |  |
The Better Part
'Tis weary treading every day
The same dull, dreary, uphill way,
While the desired and the divine
So fair and far above us shine—
As unattainable as dear
To us who grope and stumble here.
The same dull, dreary, uphill way,
While the desired and the divine
So fair and far above us shine—
As unattainable as dear
To us who grope and stumble here.
73
'Tis hard to hold our flag on high,
And never faint, until we die—
To spread our banner on a wind
Scented with garlands left behind:
To give up all life's joy, that we
May humble banner-bearers be.
And never faint, until we die—
To spread our banner on a wind
Scented with garlands left behind:
To give up all life's joy, that we
May humble banner-bearers be.
'Tis hard to sing, in faith, of light
Through endless seeming hours of night—
To tune the harp, the voice upraise
For Freedom's sake, for Honour's praise—
To sing of good that is, not seems—
To sing of duties, not of dreams.
Through endless seeming hours of night—
To tune the harp, the voice upraise
For Freedom's sake, for Honour's praise—
To sing of good that is, not seems—
To sing of duties, not of dreams.
'Tis hard to fix one's sleepy eyes
On faint, faint streaks of new sunrise,
When all one's being yearns to weep
Its tiredness out, and turn to sleep:
Sleep and forget, and cease to care
If sunrise be, if darkness were.
On faint, faint streaks of new sunrise,
When all one's being yearns to weep
Its tiredness out, and turn to sleep:
Sleep and forget, and cease to care
If sunrise be, if darkness were.
'Tis weary fighting all one's life
In one long, bitter, desperate strife,
The hydra-headed, rampant wrong,
When one is fain of dance and song—
To smell the rose, and hear the fair
Soft wings of Pleasure in the air.
In one long, bitter, desperate strife,
The hydra-headed, rampant wrong,
When one is fain of dance and song—
To smell the rose, and hear the fair
Soft wings of Pleasure in the air.
Yet would we choose the weary way,
The fighting, not the feasting day—
To wear the armour, not the flowers,
To sing of Truth while voice is ours;
Because good fight's worst wounds are far
More dear than any pleasures are.
The fighting, not the feasting day—
To wear the armour, not the flowers,
To sing of Truth while voice is ours;
Because good fight's worst wounds are far
More dear than any pleasures are.
| Ballads and Lyrics of Socialism: 1883-1908 | |