Classic Poem

Not only when thou art terrible, Desire,
Do we acknowledge thine unshaken power;
Thou liv'st not only in the raging fire,
Thou liv'st as fully in the slightest flower.
Now the moon fails, that radiant so long
Rode the black, burnished levels of the night,
Serene and lovely witness of delight;
And now I catch my breath and hold my song,
That cannot longer than the heaven be bright,
For the faint clouds that now obscure the moon
Darken my mind's serenity too soon.

Thus is it ever. Still the shade will creep
On lovely things, who knoweth how or whence?
Like quick dreams crowding in a healthy sleep,
A sudden pulse, an urgent influence.
Thus the light wrinkles on an azure pool
Spread outward from the fall of one frail leaf,
The first the tree weeps off for future grief,
In the sad hour when summer's cup is full.
Long move the waters, though the touch be brief,
And break in shards that image of the sky
They showed before in blue tranquillity.

Who knoweth how or whence desire will come,
The wind that wakes the foam-line on the sea,
That breathes new feeling into spirits numb
To try again an exquisite agony?
Maybe when in the idle world of men,
We poise in words upon the perfect hour
Or, lonely, stoop to touch a lonely flower,
At the serenest point of noon or when
A black cloud breaks into a silver shower;
Out of all these and out of more than these
The influence comes that shatters all our ease.

I too have prayed to feel desire no more,
To find in little things a small content,
No longer from the green and friendly shore
To swim, a waif in the huge element.
My spirit darkens, my heart beats fitfully;
A power descends upon my soul that shakes
The calm of tranquillizing song and breaks
The doom-dark wave of passion over me
And every tumult in my being wakes;
A power not friendly to me but divine
Troubles the current of my trembling line.

In all the things we love the ambush lies
And most of all in love. Who has not known
Under the glance of the beloved's eyes
How painfully his deep unrest has grown?
Out of sweet things we would a refuge make,
A certain harbour for the flying mind,
Each worldly solace to our fortune bind,
Comfort from love, counsel from friendship take;
Yet in the roof and furnishings we find,
Hid like a snake, whose fangs bear venomous fire,
Thou hast thy secret shelter made, Desire!

O most of all in love! Contentment there
Is but the single moment ere decay,
Precursor of a long and dull despair,
Frets the fruit's golden rind and flesh away.
Some wear love's crown a day and see love go,
Having been content; but they whose loves endure
Ache with an ill love has not strength to cure,
Strive for perfection, stumble still and know
Too well that love is ever insecure,
That in the midst of pleasure hunger sits
And feeds upon the tortured heart and wits.

Immortal agony! what canst thou be,
If that thou be not the immortal spur,
Which, when we halt in sloth or luxury
We faint and failing mortals must incur?
Thus comes the wind upon a mountain-lake
That lay beneath the sun, serene and bland;
And now at touch of the triumphant hand
A thousand colours on the surface wake;
The ripples move and curl from land to land
And, while they struggle and the tyrant blows,
The tumult of the sunlit water grows.

The faint clouds drift and drive across the moon,
Veil and unveil her distant loveliness;
The ecstasy will sink and leave me soon,
Yet still the vague, bright intimations press
Remorselessly upon my flagging mind,
And to these whips my shuddering flesh lies bare
And to these lights my aching eyeballs stare —
I wince, my courage leaves me, I am blind!
O spare me utter death but mostly spare
The dull revengeful fire, the mocking prize
Which in the heart of all fulfilment lies.

For all fulfilment let lament be made,
Save for the pause and turning which is death;
Weep for those spirits who on shows that fade
And earthly copies waste their fitful breath,
Forgetful of the far, ideal skies.
They know not how the awakened soul can be
Borne above sorrow and felicity
To hold brief converse thus with Paradise
And catch the signals of eternity;
They know not that desire is but a spray
Thrown from the fountain of eternal day!

The moon is gone, the moon is down and dead;
A last dull gleam in the horizon trees
Bears witness to the glory that is shed;
Now through the vacant sky a rambling breeze
Murmurs invisibly. The wings now fail
That bore aloft my struggling load of song.
I faint, I falter. Be thou now not long,
O sleep unwaked of owl or nightingale,
Nor let not in on me the urgent throng
Of dreams, but be thou full and calm and deep,
For more than this I crave not, blessed sleep!