Meanwhile, though nations in distress Cower at a comet's loveliness Shaken across the midnight sky;
Though the wind roars, and Victory,
A virgin fierce, on vans of gold Stoops through the cloud's white smother rolled Over the armies' shock and flow Across the broad green hills below,
Yet hovers and will not circle down To cast t'ward one the leafy crown;
Though men drive galleys' golden beaks To isles beyond the sunset peaks,
And cities on the sea behold Whose walls are glass, whose gates are gold,
Whose turrets, risen in an hour,
Dazzle between the sun and shower,
Whose sole inhabitants are kings Six cubits high with gryphon's wings And beard and mien more glorious Than Midas or Assaracus;
Though priests in many a a hill-top fane Lift anguished hands -- and lift in vain -- Toward the sun's shaft dancing through The bright roof's square of wind-swept blue;
Though 'cross the stars nightly arise The silver fumes of sacrifice;
Though a new Helen bring new scars Pyres piled upon wrecked golden cars,
Stacked spears, rolled smoke, and spirits sped Like a streaked flame toward the dead:
Though all these be, yet grows not old Delight of sunned and windy wold,
Of soaking downs aglare, asteam,
Of still tarns where the yellow gleam Of a far sunrise slowly breaks,
Or sunset strews with golden flakes The deeps which soon the stars will throng.
For earth yet keeps her undersong Of comfort and of ultimate peace,
That whoso seeks shall never cease To hear at dawn or noon or night.
Joys hath she, too, joys thin and bright,
Too thin, too bright, for those to hear Who listen with an eager ear,
Or course about and seek to spy,
Within an hour, eternity.
First must the spirit cast aside This world's and next his own poor pride And learn the universe to scan More as a flower, less as a man.
Then shall he hear the lonely dead Sing and the stars sing overhead,
And every spray upon the heath,
And larks above and ants beneath;
The stream shall take him in her arms;
Blue skies shall rest him in their calms;
The wind shall be a lovely friend,
And every leaf and bough shall bend Over him with a lover's grace.
The hills shall bare a perfect face Full of a high solemnity;
The heavenly clouds shall weep, and be Content as overhead they swim To be high brothers unto him.
No more shall he feel pitched and hurled Uncomprehended into this world;
For every place shall be his place,
And he shall recognize its face.
At dawn he shall upon his path;
No sword shall touch him, nor the wrath Of the ranked crowd of clamorous men.
At even he shall home again,
And lay him down to sleep at ease,
One with the Night and the Night's peace.
Ev'n Sorrow, to be escaped of none,
But a more deep communion Shall be to him, and Death at last No more dreaded than the Past,
Whose shadow in the brain of earth Informs him now and gave him birth.
