The child who chases lizards in the grass,
The sage who deep in central nature delves,
The preacher watching for the ill hour to pass—
All these are souls who fly from their dread selves.
Two spirit-things a man hath for his friends—
Sorrow, that gives for guerdon liberty,
And joy, the touching of whose finger lends
To lightest of all light things sanctity.
Long thou for nothing, neither sad nor gay;
Long thou for nothing, neither night nor day;
Not even “I long to see thy longing over,”
To the ever-longing and mournful spirit say.
The ghosts went by me with their lips apart
From death’s late languor as these lines I read
On Brahma’s gateway, “They within have fed
The soul upon the ashes of the heart.”
This heard I where, amid the apple trees,
Wild indolence and music have no date,
“I laughed upon the lips of Sophocles,
I go as soft as folly; I am Fate.”
“Around, the twitter of the lips of dust
A tossing laugh between their red abides;
With patient beauty yonder Attic bust
In the deep alcove’s dimness smiles and hides.”
The heart of noon folds silence and folds sleep,
For noon and midnight from each other borrow,
And Joy, in growing deeper and more deep,
Walks in the vesture of her sister Sorrow.