XCVI Yet Ah, that Spring should vanish with the Rose! XCVII Would but the Desert of the Fountain yield XCVIII Would but some wingèd Angel ere too late And make the stern Recorder otherwise Enregister, or quite obliterate! XCIX Ah Love! could you and I with Him conspire C Yon rising Moon that looks for us again— How oft hereafter rising look for us Through this same Garden-and for one in vain! CI And when like her, oh Sákí,1 you shall pass Among the Guests Star-scattered on the Grass, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in his hand Who saith, "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!" Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?" Not that, admiring stars, It yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!” Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth's brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! 3 Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 1 Cupbearer. 2 Although represented as the words of an eleventh-century rabbi, the oem is an accepted expression of the philosophy of its author. 3 The remonstrance referred to is presumably the disparagement of youth hich is implied in the first stanza. Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast; Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop-full bird? beast? Rejoice we are allied To that which doth provide Frets doubt the maw-crammed And not partake, effect and not receive! A spark disturbs our clod; Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe. Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! For thence, a paradox Which comforts while it mocks,— Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. What is he but a brute Whose flesh has soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test- 1 1 Perhaps whose spirit works only in the interest of bodily satisfactions. hy body at its best, ow far can that project thy soul on its lone way? own the Past profuse f power each side, perfection every turn: yes, ears took in their dole, rain treasured up the whole; ould not the heart beat once, "How good to live and learn?” ot once beat, "Praise be thine! see the whole design, who saw power, see now Love perfect too; erfect I call thy plan: 'hanks that I was a man! Maker, remake, complete,-I trust what thou shalt do!" or pleasant is this flesh; 'ur soul, in its rose-mesh ulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: Would we some prize might hold 'o match those manifold ossessions of the brute,—-gain most, as we did best! et us not always say, Spite of this flesh to-day strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" s the bird wings and sings, et us cry, "All good things re ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" 'herefore I summon age 'o grant youth's heritage, ife's struggle having so far reached its term: Thence shall I pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed brute; a God though in the germ. And I shall thereupon Take rest, ere I be gone Once more on my adventure brave and new: Fearless and unperplexed, When I wage battle next, What weapons to select, what armor to indue. Youth ended, I shall try My gain or loss thereby; Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: And I shall weigh the same, Give life its praise or blame: Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. For note, when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: A whisper from the west Shoots "Add this to the rest, Take it and try its worth: here dies another day." So, still within this life, Though lifted o'er its strife, Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, "This rage was right i' the main, That acquiescence vain: The Future I may face now I have proved the Past." For more is not reserved To man, with soul just nerved |