Methought the heav’ns were crusht; A myriad angels stood; A wind of thunder rusht Before the feet of God.
He spake: ‘Accursèd men, I find your earth a hell; Show me what ye have done; I bade ye order well.’
They said, ‘Well we have pray’d, Lord, and for Heaven’s hope A thousand temples made.’ And His lightning lickt them up.
Spirit, tho’ without a name, Great, the left hand of God; Who coolest the quick flame And bendest back the rod
His awful right hand bears, Till the dull worm of earth No worse in darkness fares Than things of brighter birth,
Nor in the lapse of hell All everlasting gloom, Help us to suffer well These dark days of our doom.
Swift Smiter of extremes, Who only lettest us live; Who feedest with bright dreams At midnight, and dost give
Even to the poorest wretch Of this distressful land A draught, a rag, a stretch Of soil, a loving hand,
Ours too the guardian Thou; And if no other good Thou wilt bestow, endow At least with fortitude.
Long, long the barren years. A deeper darkness grows; The road-side tree appears No more; the shadows close.
Lost, I sit down with night And weave night-horrors here— Sad voices heard in flight, And warnings in the air,
And convocations of thunder Above tumultuous woods, And white stars weeping under Black threatening of clouds.
Death too hath come with Sorrow. Sorrow enough to-day Brings Death with her to-morrow, Unwelcome guest, to stay
With us. If I be sick I know not, care not, and The night is very thick; My tract of toil is sand.
Hated the daily toil; Hated the toil I loved; Daily the worthless soil Sinks back as it is moved.
I seized the hands of Grief; I would not thus be thrown; But Death came like a thief Behind and seized my own
I held debate with Pain, And half persuaded her; Then came the utterance plain Of Death, the Answerer.
‘Cryest thou so before Thou sufferest?’ he said; ‘Wait yet a little more And thou shalt cry indeed.’
Sorrow so darkly veiled Will take my hand and lead. O Wisdom, thou hast failed, And Sorrow, she must lead;
And Death with her. He goes Before and readeth plain The painful list of those Dear ones whom he hath slain.
They fail, they fall, they sink, Torn from the treacherous sands; The deeps of death they drink And reach out madden’d hands.