Entsagen
As One that gazes, starbound, on the sky,
Heeds not a pageant passing in the street;
As one swept onward with a favoring wind
Recks not of wild sea-treasures at his feet;
As one that walks in high, prophetic dreams,
Forgets the throb of earth, and sense of pain;
As conquerors tarry not to count their dead,
Nor lovers weigh their losing in their gain:
So, teachest thou, the soul by God endowed
With lofty impulse, and poetic sweep,
Bereft of all its earthly heritage,
Should still disdain to struggle, or to weep;
Should not defend the prizes of the heart
With straining grasp, with agonizing tears,
Nor, bruised and martyr'd, ask aloud of God
Its ravished beauty, for the scar it wears.
Life hunts us blindfold, plucking at our hands,
Mocking us on, eluding us with jeers;
Breathless, we roll our darkened eyes for help,
With heathen laughter ringing in our ears.
Thus we relinquish treasures of high trust,
Thus, weakly cling where we should render up,
When, with free sight and arm, 'twere scarcely hard
To seize and dash down the disputed cup.
But, friend, for such proud gesture one should wear
A haughty forehead, kept by beetling brows,
An eye that melts and quivers not, a lip
That hardens to the enmity it vows.
Oh! stood I thus enfranchised, long enough
To gather up each wrecked and wronged delight,
Commit them to th' abyss with holy words,
Then, tearless, front the calm, eternal night!
And oh! my womanish heart — if this were done,
I should but bend, with fixed and shaded eye,
Follow the ghosts of parted happiness,
Then, with wild tossing arms, plunge down and die.
Heeds not a pageant passing in the street;
As one swept onward with a favoring wind
Recks not of wild sea-treasures at his feet;
As one that walks in high, prophetic dreams,
Forgets the throb of earth, and sense of pain;
As conquerors tarry not to count their dead,
Nor lovers weigh their losing in their gain:
So, teachest thou, the soul by God endowed
With lofty impulse, and poetic sweep,
Bereft of all its earthly heritage,
Should still disdain to struggle, or to weep;
Should not defend the prizes of the heart
With straining grasp, with agonizing tears,
Nor, bruised and martyr'd, ask aloud of God
Its ravished beauty, for the scar it wears.
Life hunts us blindfold, plucking at our hands,
Mocking us on, eluding us with jeers;
Breathless, we roll our darkened eyes for help,
With heathen laughter ringing in our ears.
Thus we relinquish treasures of high trust,
Thus, weakly cling where we should render up,
When, with free sight and arm, 'twere scarcely hard
To seize and dash down the disputed cup.
But, friend, for such proud gesture one should wear
A haughty forehead, kept by beetling brows,
An eye that melts and quivers not, a lip
That hardens to the enmity it vows.
Oh! stood I thus enfranchised, long enough
To gather up each wrecked and wronged delight,
Commit them to th' abyss with holy words,
Then, tearless, front the calm, eternal night!
And oh! my womanish heart — if this were done,
I should but bend, with fixed and shaded eye,
Follow the ghosts of parted happiness,
Then, with wild tossing arms, plunge down and die.
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