Surely before the time my Sun has set:
The evening had not come, it was but noon,
The gladness passed from all my Pleasant Land;
And, through the night that knows nor star nor moon,
Among clean souls who all but Heaven forget,
Alone remembering I wander on.
They sing of triumph, and a Mighty Hand
Locked fast in theirs through sorrow's Mystery;
They sing of glimpses of another Land,
Whose purples gleam through all their agony.
But I-I did not choose like them, I chose
The summer roses, and the red, red wine,
The juice of earth's wild grapes, to drink with those
Whose glories yet thro' saddest memories shine.
I will not tell of them, of him who came;
I will not tell you what men call my land.
They speak half-choked in fogs of scorn and sin.
I turn from all their pitiless human din
To voices that can feel and understand.
O ever-laughing rivers, sing his name
To all your lilies;-tell it out, O chime,
In hourly four-fold voices;-western breeze
Among the avenues of scented lime
Murmur it softly to the summer night;-
O sunlight, water, music, flowers and trees,
Heart-beats of nature's infinite delight,
Love him for ever, all things beautiful!
A little while it was he stayed with me,
And taught me knowledge sweet and wonderful,
And satisfied my soul with poetry:
But soon, too soon, there sounded from above
Innumerable clapping of white hands,
And countless laughing voices sang of love,
And called my friend away to other lands.
Well-I am very glad they were so fair,
For whom the lightening east and morning skies;
For me the sunset of his golden hair,
Fading among the hills of Paradise.
Weed-grown is all my garden of delight;-
Most tired, most cold without the Eden-gate,
With eyes still good for ache, tho' not for sight,
Among the briers and thorns I weep and wait.
Now first I catch the meaning of a strife,
A great soul-battle fought for death or life.
Nearing me come the rumours of a war,
And blood and dust sweep cloudy from afar,
And, surging round, the sobbing of the sea
Choked with the weepings of humanity.
Alas! no armour have I fashioned me,
And, having lived on honey in the past,
Have gained no strength. From the unfathomed sea
I draw no food, for all the nets I cast.
I am not strong enough to fight beneath,
I am not clean enough to mount above;
Oh let me dream, although to dream is death,
Beside the hills where last I saw my Love.