Before mine eyes are sea and sky,
And from the sea, a mountain high
Bathed in the softest silver light;
The sun's great shield so dazzling bright
Upon the tranquil sea doth lie.

Such radiant gems I there descry
Nor Emperors nor Queens may buy;
They shine like flashing stars of night
Before mine eyes.

Oh mountain, soft as clouds that fly,
Oh clouds, 'twixt heaven and earth that ply,
And sea of silver, shorn of might
By peaceful sky; most blessed sight
To soothe, to cheer, to fortify
Before mine eyes.

That man is brave who at the nod of fate
Will lay his life a willing offering down,
That they who loved him may know length of days;
May stay awhile upon this pleasant earth
Drinking its gladness and its vigour in,
Though he himself lie silent evermore,
Dead to the gentle calling of the Spring,
Dead to the warmth of Summer; wrapt in dream
So deep, so far, that never dreamer yet
Has waked to tell his dream. Men there may be
Who, careless of its worth, toss life away,
A counter in some feverish game of chance,
Or, stranger yet, will sell it day by day

Farewell, my lyre! for now the course is run.
Lay thee to sleep; our singing-time is done.
Before thy tones my sorrow often fled
As Saul's of old. The echoes of them sped
Through many a good, yea, far more worthy breast.
I'm done with thee. Be still, and take thy rest!

“Syea” I once did sing and “Frithiof's Lay,”
To Nature, Man, and God mine anthems rang:
In sober truth I lived but when I sang.
From north to south the winds did shift and sway,
My poor heart had from thorns full many a pang,
But many a rose would charm the pain away.

M ERRY'S the trade of a poet; but somewhat a dear one, I fear me;
For, as my book grows apace, all of my sequins I lose.

These things my soul showed clear to me
As in a trance I lay;
And I shall know them while I live,
Through day and night and day.

O fair are freedom and victory!
The sweet sky rained with wings.
I was so happy that I seemed
Like one of those fair things.

For, as through still clear waters, fell
Dissolving phantoms white,
Like wavering dreams slow shaken down
From a great fount of light.

And sweetly, sweetly from my flesh
I felt the fetters slip.
With pennons fair on the blue air
I sailed, a white-plumed ship.

Onward I flew o'er seas so clear
That still my wraith below,
Like a mute pilgrimaging thought,
Inexorable did go.

What next I saw ill can I tell,
And ill can understand;
But yet I know that once I went
Through that magic land.

It was a waste of jagged rock
(Nor beast nor shrub was nigh),
Whereon a glittering palace lay
Like ruins of the sky.

I crept within; I stood within
Far down the toppling ledge
Scaffolds of wood in order stood
From edge to shuddering edge.

And spiders wove and silence lay
On each deserted wall.
Like a wild stream from beam to beam
I fell through that great hall.

Fell, till the last beam held me fast!

The billows rose; down sank the land;
The sea closed in like lead;
The waves like leopards tumbled on
Far above my head.

Slow closed the mesh, slow waxed my flesh,
Darkly I came to birth;
I rose; the sky was white as snow,
As ashes black the earth:

The ashes of millennial fires
Extinguished utterly!
In towering blocks the twisted rocks
Stuck up above the sea.

Blithely I swam, a moving thing,
On the vast and moveless mere;
And headless things swam in blind swift rings
Around. I did not fear

I knew not whence my breath had streamed,
Nor where had hid my clay,
Until my soul stood by my side
As on my bed I lay.

It showed me Chaos and the Word,
The dust, the moving Hand,
Myself, the many and the one,
The dead, the living land.

Faintly at first I heard the sound,
Far distant, of the sea:
A rushing sound—it filled my ears,
And passéd silently.

I stood beside a dark blue shore,
Beneath a dark blue sky.
The light came from no vanished star,
The sun had not passed by.

Faintly uprist like graven mist

Thy way, O God, is best,—
Thy way, not mine;
Patient beneath Thy rod,
Quick to obey Thy nod,
Because Thou art my God,—
Thy way, not mine.

I know Thy wise design;
Thy will is mine.
From earthly dross refine,
Shape to the mould divine,
My soul shall ne'er repine,—
Thy will, not mine.

Clay in the potter's hand,
Thy will is mine.
'T is Thine, the vase to make,
Or Thine, dear Lord, to break;
Thine, or to give, or take,—
Thy will, not mine.

Sorrow, or joy, be sent,—
Thy will is mine;
In all, Thy love I see;