| |
| WE build with strength the deep tower-wall | |
| That shall be shattered thus and thus. | |
| And fair and great are court and hall, | |
| But how fair—this is not for us, | |
| Who dimly feel the want of all. | 5 |
| |
| We know, we know how all too bright | |
| All hues of ours though dimmed through tears, | |
| And how the marble gleams too white;— | |
| We speak in unknown tongues, the years | |
| Interpret everything aright, | 10 |
| |
| And crown with weeds our pride of towers, | |
| And warm our marble through with sun, | |
| And break our pavements through with flowers, | |
| With an Amen when all is done, | |
| Knowing these perfect things of ours. | 15 |
| |
| O days, we ponder, left alone, | |
| Like children in their lonely hour, | |
| And in our secrets keep your own, | |
| As seeds the colour of the flower. | |
| To-day they are not all unknown, | 20 |
| |
| The stars that ’twixt the rise and fall, | |
| Like relic-seers, shall one by one | |
| Stand musing o’er our empty hall; | |
| And setting moons shall brood upon | |
| The frescoes of our inward wall. | 25 |
| |
| And when some midsummer shall be, | |
| Hither will come some little one | |
| (Dusty with bloom of flowers is he), | |
| Sit on a ruin i’ the late long sun, | |
| And think, one foot upon his knee. | 30 |
| |
| And where they wrought, these lives of ours, | |
| So many-worded, many-souled, | |
| A North-west wind will take the towers, | |
| And dark with colour, sunny and cold, | |
| Will range alone among the flowers. | 35 |
| |
| And here or there, at our desire, | |
| The little clamorous owl shall sit | |
| Through her still time; and we aspire | |
| To make a law (and know not it) | |
| Unto the life of a wild briar. | 40 |
| |
| We have a perfect purpose, dear, | |
| Though from our consciousness ’tis hidden. | |
| Thou, time to come, shalt make it clear, | |
| Undoing our work; we are children chidden | |
| With pity, and smiles of many a year. | 45 |
| |
| Who shall allot the praise, and guess | |
| What part is yours and what is ours?— | |
| O years that certainly will bless | |
| Our flowers with fruits, our seeds with flowers, | |
| With ruin all our perfectness. | 50 |
| |
| Be patient, Time, of our delays, | |
| Too happy hopes, and wasted fears, | |
| Our faithful ways, our wilful ways. | |
| Solace our labours, O our seers | |
| The seasons, and our bards the days; | 55 |
| |
| And make our pause and silence brim | |
| With the shrill children’s play, and sweets | |
| Of those pathetic flowers and dim, | |
| Of those eternal flowers my Keats | |
| Dying felt growing over him. | 60 |
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