| |
| THE FACE which, duly as the sun, | |
| Rose up for me with life begun, | |
| To mark all bright hours of the day | |
| With daily love, is dimmed away— | |
| And yet my days go on, go on. | 5 |
| |
| The tongue which, like a stream, could run | |
| Smooth music from the roughest stone, | |
| And every morning with “Good day” | |
| Make each day good, is hushed away— | |
| And yet my days go on, go on. | 10 |
| |
| The heart which, like a staff, was one | |
| For mine to lean and rest upon, | |
| The strongest on the longest day, | |
| With steadfast love is caught away— | |
| And yet my days go on, go on. | 15 |
| |
| The world goes whispering to its own, | |
| “This anguish pierces to the bone.” | |
| And tender friends go sighing round, | |
| “What love can ever cure this wound?” | |
| My days go on, my days go on. | 20 |
| |
| The past rolls forward on the sun | |
| And makes all night. O dreams begun, | |
| Not to be ended! Ended bliss! | |
| And life, that will not end in this! | |
| My days go on, my days go on. | 25 |
| |
| Breath freezes on my lips to moan: | |
| As one alone, once not alone, | |
| I sit and knock at Nature’s door, | |
| Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor, | |
| Whose desolated days go on. | 30 |
| |
| I knock and cry—Undone, undone! | |
| Is there no help, no comfort—none? | |
| No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains | |
| Where others drive their loaded wains? | |
| My vacant days go on, go on. | 35 |
| |
| This Nature, though the snows be down, | |
| Thinks kindly of the bird of June. | |
| The little red hip on the tree | |
| Is ripe for such. What is for me, | |
| Whose days so winterly go on? | 40 |
| |
| No bird am I to sing in June, | |
| And dare not ask an equal boon. | |
| Good nests and berries red are Nature’s | |
| To give away to better creatures— | |
| And yet my days go on, go on. | 45 |
| |
| I ask less kindness to be done— | |
| Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon | |
| (Too early worn and grimed) with sweet | |
| Cool deathly touch to these tired feet, | |
| Till days go out which now go on. | 50 |
| |
| Only to lift the turf unmown | |
| From off the earth where it has grown, | |
| Some cubit-space, and say, “Behold, | |
| Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold, | |
| Forgetting how the days go on.” | 55 |
| |
| A Voice reproves me thereupon, | |
| More sweet than Nature’s, when the drone | |
| Of bees is sweetest, and more deep | |
| Than when the rivers overleap | |
| The shuddering pines, and thunder on. | 60 |
| |
| God’s Voice, not Nature’s—night and noon | |
| He sits upon the great white throne, | |
| And listens for the creature’s praise. | |
| What babble we of days and days? | |
| The Dayspring he, whose days go on! | 65 |
| |
| He reigns above, he reigns alone: | |
| Systems burn out and leave his throne: | |
| Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall | |
| Around him, changeless amid all— | |
| Ancient of days, whose days go on! | 70 |
| |
| He reigns below, he reigns alone— | |
| And having life in love forgone | |
| Beneath the crown of sovran thorns, | |
| He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns | |
| Or rules with HIM, while days go on? | 75 |
| |
| By anguish which made pale the sun, | |
| I hear him charge his saints that none | |
| Among the creatures anywhere | |
| Blaspheme against him with despair, | |
| However darkly days go on. | 80 |
| |
| Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown: | |
| No mortal grief deserves that crown. | |
| O supreme Love, chief misery, | |
| The sharp regalia are for Thee, | |
| Whose days eternally go on! | 85 |
| |
| For us,… whatever ’s undergone, | |
| Thou knowest, willest what is done. | |
| Grief may be joy misunderstood: | |
| Only the Good discerns the good. | |
| I trust Thee while my days go on. | 90 |
| |
| Whatever ’s lost, it first was won! | |
| We will not struggle nor impugn. | |
| Perhaps the cup was broken here | |
| That Heaven’s new wine might show more clear. | |
| I praise Thee while my days go on. | 95 |
| |
| I praise Thee while my days go on; | |
| I love Thee while my days go on! | |
| Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, | |
| With emptied arms and treasure lost, | |
| I thank thee while my days go on! | 100 |
| |
| And, having in thy life-depth thrown | |
| Being and suffering (which are one), | |
| As a child drops some pebble small | |
| Down some deep well, and hears it fall | |
| Smiling—so I! THY DAYS GO ON! | 105 |
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