| |
| .. ‘HIGH 1 Prophetess,’ said I, ‘purge off, Benign, if so it please thee, my mind’s film.’ | |
| |
| ‘None can usurp this height,’ return’d that shade, | |
| ‘But those to whom the miseries of the world | |
| Are misery, and will not let them rest. | |
| All else who find a haven in the world, | 5 |
| Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days, | |
| If by a chance into this fane they come, | |
| Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half.’ | |
| |
| ‘Are there not thousands in the world,’ said I, | |
| Encouraged by the sooth voice of the shade, | 10 |
| ‘Who love their fellows even to the death, | |
| Who feel the giant agony of the world, | |
| And more, like slaves to poor humanity, | |
| Labour for mortal good? I sure should see | |
| Other men here, but I am here alone.’ | 15 |
| |
| ‘Those whom thou spakest of are no visionaries,’ | |
| Rejoin’d that voice; ‘they are no dreamers weak; | |
| They seek no wonder but the human face, | |
| No music but a happy-noted voice: | |
| They come not here, they have no thought to come; | 20 |
| And thou art here, for thou art less than they. | |
| What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe, | |
| To the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing, | |
| A fever of thyself: think of the earth; | |
| What bliss, even in hope, is there for thee? | 25 |
| What haven? every creature hath its home, | |
| Every sole man hath days of joy and pain, | |
| Whether his labours be sublime or low— | |
| The pain alone, the joy alone, distinct: | |
| Only the dreamer venoms all his days, | 30 |
| Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve’ … | |
