Classic Poem

New insight from my fearlessness and pain,
Which I would chronicle: but be you one
Who clasps his Wordsworth, Browning, Tennyson,
As revelation of all spirit-gain
In Life, the Terrible, you'll learn of me
Little. But let me tell you that I tried
Their gold by touchstone of my agony,
Testing their best of wisdom, when she died,
A thousand times; and tallied sound with sound,
Their verses by my beating heart, and found
They rang scarce true, as tested by that heart
Which has become the tuning-fork for art
Along the deeper octaves. — Goethe only
Came home to me, when I was most, most lonely.

What spiritual good? — Well, first a hint
From foresaid words about the bardic three:
The utter blackness gave new eyes to see
What truly counts — to tell the living flint
(That showers the sparks across this cave of earth)
From simulating limestone, where it beds
In sturdy nodules of enduring worth,
Whereof men get the fire, the arrowheads, —
The hearth and its defenses. In that dark
I invoiced Life, with fingers of the soul —
All books, philosophies, and all my friends
I invoiced. And when I set down a mark
It was a cryptic sign, with seal and scroll,
That meant new judgments made for some new ends.

*****

... Descend to Hell
And whirlwind, and arise to day more strong,
And know man's Consciousness in its full dower:
Namely, in its Intensity and Power.

" In its Intensity " : In daily life
We know not what it is to be alive;
All our routine is whittling with a knife;
Or beating with a tom-tom at the hive;
We hear the belfry clock and call it Time;
We meet a shadow, and say " good morning, Friend " ;
We see about us books and lamps and rime
On wintry windows, as we sit and blend
With our surroundings. But Intensity
Is not of such; nor yet of peace or joy,
In its last revelation: there must be
Grief and remorse, seething in fierce alloy
With anger and terror, ere we once may guess
The unutterable Life of Consciousness.

" And in its Power " : Again, in daily life
We know not what it is to be alive:
We quicken step to shrilling of the fife;
We play at checkers and suppose we strive;
We touch our spirits with a spur of wax,
When drowsy, saying, " We've a will to drive " ;
We chop a dead reed with a wooden axe;
We douse our head in bowl and think we dive. —
We play with action: yet the Power of Mind's
Not in the game. But when it takes its own
Distorted shreds, unravels, knots, and binds
(Nor asks of God or Devil gift or loan),
Circled by scoundrel foes, then first we guess
The startling Energy of Consciousness.