When, jaded with the rush and glare Of the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafen'd ear Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. A man becomes aware of his life's flow, And hears its winding murmur; and he sees The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. And there arrives a lull in the hot race Wherein he doth for ever chase That flying and elusive shadow, rest. An air of coolness plays upon his face, And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. And then he thinks he knows The hills where his life rose, And the sea where it goes. LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS In this lone, open glade I lie, Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand; And at its end, to stay the eye, Those black-crown'd, red-boled pine-trees stand! Birds here make song, each bird has his, Across the girdling city's hum. How green under the boughs it is! Sometimes a child will cross the glade Here at my feet what wonders pass, In the huge world, which roars hard by, I, on men's impious uproar hurl'd, Yet here is peace for ever new! Then to their happy rest they pass ! Calm soul of all things! make it mine That there abides a peace of thine, The will to neither strive nor cry, Before I have begun to live. A WISH I ASK not that my bed of death I ask not each kind soul to keep There are worse plagues on earth than tears. I ask but that my death may find Ask but the folly of mankind Then, then at last, to quit my side. Spare me the whispering, crowded room, The friends who come, and gape, and go; The ceremonious air of gloom All, which makes death a hideous show! Nor bring, to see me cease to live, Nor fetch, to take the accustom'd toll To canvass with official breath The future and its viewless things— Which one who feels death's winnowing wings Must needs read clearer, sure, than he! Bring none of these; but let me be, Moved to the window near, and see Bathed in the sacred dews of morn Which never was the friend of one, There let me gaze, till I become Of the sick room, the mortal strife, Thus feeling, gazing, might I grow To work or wait elsewhere or here! 12 THE FUTURE Speli A WANDERER is man from his birth. On the breast of the river of Time; He spreads out his arms to the light, Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream. As what he sees is, so have his thoughts been. Where the snowy mountainous pass, Echoing the screams of the eagles, Of the new-born clear-flowing stream; Where the river in gleaming rings So is the mind of the man. Vainly does each, as he glides, Fable and dream Of the lands which the river of Time Or shall reach when his eyes have been closed. |