Why should I sing of earth or heaven? not rather rest, Powerless to speak of that which hath my soul possessed,-- For full possession dumb? Yea, Silence, that were best.
And though for what it failed to sound I brake the string, And dashed the sweet lute down, a too much fingered thing, And found a wild new voice,--oh, still, why should I sing?
An earth-song could I make, strange as the breath of earth, Filled with the great calm joy of life and death and birth? Yet, were it less than this, the song were little worth.
For this the fields caress; brown clods tell each to each; Sad-colored leaves have sense whereto I cannot reach; Spiced everlasting-flowers outstrip my range of speech.
A heaven-song could I make, all fire that yet was peace, And tenderness not lost, though glory did increase? But were it less than this, 't were well the song should cease.
For this the still west saith, with plumy flames bestrewn; Heaven's body sapphire-clear, at stirless height of noon; The cloud where lightnings pulse, beside the untroubled moon.
I will not sing of earth or heaven, but rather rest, Rapt by the face of heaven, and hold on earth's warm breast. Hushed lips, a beating heart, yea, Silence, that were best.
"Not ye who have stoned, not ye who have smitten us," cry The sad, great souls, as they go out hence into dark, "Not ye we accuse, though for you was our passion borne; And ye we reproach not, who silently passed us by. We forgive blind eyes and the ears that would not hark, The careless and causeless hate and the shallow scorn.
"But ye, who have seemed to know us, have seen and heard; Who have set us at feasts and have crowned with the costly rose; Who have spread us the purple of praises beneath our feet; Yet guessed not the word that we spake was a living word, Applauding the sound,--we account you as worse than foes! We sobbed you our message; ye said, 'It is song, and sweet!'"
The eastern heaven was all faint amethyst, Whereon the moon hung dreaming in the mist; To north yet drifted one long delicate plume Of roseate cloud; like snow the ocean-spume.
Now when the first foreboding swiftly ran Through the loud-glorying sea that it began To lose its late gained lordship of the land, Uprose the billow like an angered man, And flung its prone strength far along the sand; Almost, almost to the old bound, the dark And taunting triumph-mark.