| |
| .. THEY 1 sat them down upon the yellow sand, | |
| Between the sun and moon upon the shore; | |
| And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, | |
| Of child and wife and slave; but evermore | |
| Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar, | 5 |
| Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. | |
| Then someone said, ‘We will return no more’; | |
| And all at once they sang, ‘Our island home | |
| Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.’ | |
| |
CHORIC SONG There is sweet music here that softer falls | 10 |
| Than petals from blown roses on the grass, | |
| Or night-dews on still waters between walls | |
| Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; | |
| Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, | |
| Than tir’d eyelids upon tir’d eyes; | 15 |
| Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. | |
| Here are cool mosses deep, | |
| And thro’ the moss the ivies creep, | |
| And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, | |
| And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. | 20 |
| |
| Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness, | |
| And utterly consumed with sharp distress, | |
| While all things else have rest from weariness? | |
| All things have rest: why should we toil alone, | |
| We only toil, who are the first of things, | 25 |
| And make perpetual moan, | |
| Still from one sorrow to another thrown: | |
| Nor ever fold our wings, | |
| And cease from wanderings, | |
| Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm; | 30 |
| Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, | |
| ‘There is no joy but calm!’ | |
| Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?.. | |
| |
| Hateful is the dark-blue sky, | |
| Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea. | 35 |
| Death is the end of life; ah, why | |
| Should life all labour be? | |
| Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, | |
| And in a little while our lips are dumb. | |
| Let us alone. What is it that will last? | 40 |
| All things are taken from us, and become | |
| Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. | |
| Let us alone. What pleasure can we have | |
| To war with evil? Is there any peace | |
| In ever climbing up the climbing wave? | 45 |
| All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave | |
| In silence; ripen, fall and cease: | |
| Give us long rest or death, dark death or dreamful ease … | |
