But, these are flowers of spring, grafted on winter; Sounds, gently opening, that grow sudden harsh; In darkness, light’s most momentary splinter; The sometime flicker, dancing o’er the marsh. Such visions deaden life, or else exalt: They will not rest, they lead to Heaven or Hell, Now charm to happiness’ more stern assault, Now bid man sink, and more despairing dwell: Pure vistas open, in long lanes of light, Building reflections, mirror-like, from their forms, And lovely angels beckon the entranc’d sight; Too oft, alas! they’re lost in life’s strange storms: Let those buds nestle amid memory’s weeds, They’ll dart their purpose, quickening life’s faint seeds.
The world was young, when some Prometheus came And snatch’d the kernel action from repose; His flaming ministrations crown’d his name, Earth throbb’d his glory in her godlike throes; And immortal words have rounded, since, the soul With love, whose sufferance is keen to act; But some seek suffering, scorning action’s goal, Disjoining love, from what lifts love to fact. Far other, taught love’s founder, and love’s lord; Far other, mighty shades have since decreed; They would not linger by the deep’ning ford, They plunged, they fought, and victors now proceed: Two notes of music blended in one tone; Rich various colours form’d their pure white zone.
For Love, without her son, is a weak fool, The faltering treble of a school-girl’s thought; She whimpers, daunted, for ’tis hot or cool, Or that’s there less, or more, than what she sought; Commutual bliss lives only when they join, And, hand in hand, pace o’er the conquered lands; One bides the occasion, stamps the current coin; The other’s power sows blessings o’er the strands: She is more weak, more lovely, and more mild; And he more beautiful, more strong, more calm; Earth almost blossomed, when just now she smiled; But earth cried out for joy, feeling his balm: Divorced, one’s weakness lends the other fuel; The more love yields, the more is action cruel.
But, borrowing aid of Nature, to upsoar, And steer thy purpose, resolution-winged; This, is to leave these suburbs for the shore, Where Nature’s movements slide, noiselessly hinged; The passive puppet, cooped in his poor self, Foregoes the scope of his divinity; Thinking he wields a little power or pelf, And knows not, sees not, power’s sublimity: Even, while living, such shall tamely die, And, uncomplaining, reap their perished seeds: But, holier, thou, stifle another’s sigh, And steal whose sorrow disappoints his deeds: Then shall the dark confirm the intenser light; And the world’s woe but make the world more bright.