THE SEEKER
The air is heavy, all the winds are still
So that my own breath hangs about my head
Like incense o'er an altar. Now the earth
Lies in a swoon, and all the flowers droop
Weighting their stems, ranged in their brazen pots
Without the house: the very petals lie
Like languid limbs relaxed; this crimson rose
Looks as if blood-steeped, almost to my sense
Smells of the same, the lilies are like death.
There is a taint of sickness in the air
Through all the noonday light--like fever chill
In fever burning,--and the sky is brass;
The very tinkle of the fountain spray
Is dead and tuneless, even the fresh springs
Have lost their freshness, run from off my hands
In drops of lead, and all my spirit seems
Weighed and confined with fetters of decay.
Because I have loved beauty more than most
And striven to pluck out the heart of it;
Because I have such sense of lovely things
That I can pour my soul in thankfulness
Before a leaf God makes to grow aright,
A unit of perfection; 'tis ordained
Because I love most still I most must lack
Love's satisfaction, quietude of soul--
Still must I find such void disparity
Between the false and true, and yet they grow
Together, intermingled; true is false
Itself, by sometime seeming, who shall find
The point where false and true are reconciled?
The very flower that we stoop to smell
Grows from a dunghill, look but in its roots,
And what obscene and hideous blind life
Goes teeming; sickened then we shrink aback
From rose's velvet petals. So the soul
Holds best and meanest in a common cup.
Yet must there be a law in things that are
Seemingly lawless, purify the sight
And truth must surely then be visible,
Disparity made clear; the eye of God
Sees good in everything, thereto I strive,
To see with God's own vision, be more clear
In speech, than God, to asking human hearts.
Then is the tangle straightened, and the world
Lies in perspective, as before me lie,
Traced through the shimmering heat, the palaces,
Towers and temples, gardens and granaries,
Of this fair City, melting far away
Into the sunlight-flooded hills at last.
Yet must I sit here for a little while,
Where many columns make a heavy gloom,
And with the trickle from the water-jars
Of unfresh water, cheat myself awhile
With thought of evening freshness. Oh my soul
Is wearier than my body with the toil,
It aches with length of watching. I have strained
My spiritual eyes to catch a glimpse of dawn
And nothing seen but blackness. Let me rest
As rest the quiet dead from doubt and toil;
Like silver feathers from the wings of God
Sleep fans my senses----
[_He sleeps._
THE CHORUS
Sleep, and forget, forget the aching toil,
The disappointments, and the long delays,
The watches of the night-time and the morn,
The lonely hours, unrewarded days;
Sleep, and forget.
In death we all are equal, great and small
Brought to the common level of the dust;
There is no glory that survives the years,
Nay, nay, alike we shall be as we must;
Sleep and forget.
In sleep we are omnipotent as gods,
Beyond our furthest wish we can attain,
Unfettered by the chain of circumstance;
Sleep then; or waking, turn and pray again
A little more to sleep and to forget.