Apologia
(To A. H. L.)
O Friend, and is my life unjust
Because I do not seek renown,
Nor love the hot arena-dust,
Nor toil to win an olive crown,
But rather for a time would hide
Deep in a vale of Thessaly,
And watch the cool Penéus glide
Atween its laurels to the sea?
My waiting is not wholly weak,
Nor is my idle dreaming wrong,
For lo! the only crowns I seek
Are inspiration for my song,
And love, to garner and to give,
And joy, to harvest and to sow,
And health, that I may largely live,
Missing no boon the gods bestow.
And heat and haste will help me not,
Nor days of toil, and nights of care,
But idle dream, and vagrant thought,
And sunny sky, and fragrant air.
O brave, strong Friend, who cannot rest,
Who dare not dream, who cannot wait,
What man can know what life is best?
The Best is the Predestinate—
The life we feel the gods desire,
The fate they urge us to fulfil:
Suffice it, if we both aspire
To work with the Almighty Will,
Whether it lead us forth to sing
In Tempe's vale a gentle note,
Or writhe in the arena-ring
With cruel thumbs upon our throat.
Whether by patience or by strife,
Thus only can our spirits climb
From Death into Immortal Life,
From Now into Eternal Time.
Thus only can we guard and save
Our soul's divine integrity,
Else are we broken like a wave
Torn by a tempest from the sea.
And even tho' we win success,
We lose all saving self-control,
Unable even to possess
A fickle, fragmentary soul.
Friend, tho' we differ here and there,
Yet have we bonds of brotherhood—
A common love of all things fair,
A common reverence for the Good.
And fain are we that Knowledge be
No daughter of the gods above,
But sister of sweet Sympathy,
And handmaid in the courts of Love.
Lo, to the gods I give my will,
And by my “dæmon” am I led.
Why should you rack and prune me still
To fit a hard Procrustes' bed?
Altho', perchance, I find delight
In other lesser joys than you,
Yet haply both our lives are right,
If we to our ownselves are true.
Each man a separate life must lead,
Each soul a separate path must wend:
Content am I if I succeed
In sometimes meeting with a Friend.
O Friend, and is my life unjust
Because I do not seek renown,
Nor love the hot arena-dust,
Nor toil to win an olive crown,
But rather for a time would hide
Deep in a vale of Thessaly,
And watch the cool Penéus glide
Atween its laurels to the sea?
My waiting is not wholly weak,
Nor is my idle dreaming wrong,
For lo! the only crowns I seek
Are inspiration for my song,
And love, to garner and to give,
And joy, to harvest and to sow,
And health, that I may largely live,
Missing no boon the gods bestow.
And heat and haste will help me not,
Nor days of toil, and nights of care,
But idle dream, and vagrant thought,
And sunny sky, and fragrant air.
O brave, strong Friend, who cannot rest,
Who dare not dream, who cannot wait,
What man can know what life is best?
The Best is the Predestinate—
The life we feel the gods desire,
The fate they urge us to fulfil:
Suffice it, if we both aspire
To work with the Almighty Will,
Whether it lead us forth to sing
In Tempe's vale a gentle note,
Or writhe in the arena-ring
With cruel thumbs upon our throat.
Whether by patience or by strife,
Thus only can our spirits climb
From Death into Immortal Life,
From Now into Eternal Time.
Thus only can we guard and save
Our soul's divine integrity,
Else are we broken like a wave
Torn by a tempest from the sea.
And even tho' we win success,
We lose all saving self-control,
Unable even to possess
A fickle, fragmentary soul.
Friend, tho' we differ here and there,
Yet have we bonds of brotherhood—
A common love of all things fair,
A common reverence for the Good.
And fain are we that Knowledge be
No daughter of the gods above,
But sister of sweet Sympathy,
And handmaid in the courts of Love.
Lo, to the gods I give my will,
And by my “dæmon” am I led.
Why should you rack and prune me still
To fit a hard Procrustes' bed?
Altho', perchance, I find delight
In other lesser joys than you,
Yet haply both our lives are right,
If we to our ownselves are true.
Each man a separate life must lead,
Each soul a separate path must wend:
Content am I if I succeed
In sometimes meeting with a Friend.
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