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I THERE is no glory of the sunset here! | |
| Heavy the clouds upon the darkening road, | |
| And heavy too the wind upon the trees! | |
| The trees sway, making moan | |
| Continuous, like breaking seas. | 5 |
| O impotent, bare things, | |
| You give at last the very cry of Earth! | |
| I walk this darkening road in solemn mood: | |
| Within deep hell came Dante to a wood— | |
| Like him I marvel at the crying trees! | 10 |
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II Christ, by thine own darkened hour, | |
| Live within me, heart and brain— | |
| Let my hands not slip the rein! | |
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| Ah, how long ago it is | |
| Since a comrade went with me! | 15 |
| Now a moment let me see | |
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| Thyself, lonely in the dark, | |
| Perfect, without wound or mark! | |
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III To-morrow I will bend the bow: | |
| My soul shall have her mark again, | 20 |
| My bosom feel the archer’s strain. | |
| No longer pacing to and fro | |
| With idle hands and listless brain: | |
| As goes the arrow forth I go. | |
| My soul shall have her mark again, | 25 |
| My bosom feel the archer’s strain. | |
| To-morrow I will bend the bow. | |
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IV The drivers in the sunset race | |
| Their coal-carts over cobble-stones— | |
| Not draymen but triumphators: | 30 |
| Their bags are left with Smith and Jones, | |
| They let their horses take their stride, | |
| Which toss their forelocks in their pride. | |
| Nor blue nor green these factions wear | |
| Which make career o’er Dublin stones; | 35 |
| But Pluto his own livery | |
| Is what each whip-carrier owns. | |
| The Caesar of the cab-rank, I | |
| Salute the triumph speeding by. | |
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