Is it we that are wise, is it we,
Who have bought with a price of grief A wisdom seldom free From scorn or disbelief,
Who find this world fulfil An end that is not our will,
Who toil with the light in our eyes Showing us scarce begun The things we meant to have done,
Is it we, is it we, that are wise?
Or O, is it you, is it you,
That have yet no language of ours,
But whose eyes are a laughter blue As of light slipping under the showers,
Whose carol, sweeter than words,
Trills clear as an April bird's,
Or a dancing brook on the hill,-- Blithe springs of a confidence That bubbles, we know not whence,
And has no knowledge of ill?
Lo, our desires have gone Like ships to a future far And vanished in mist alone By no befriending star.
But all to you is a wonder Fresh as the sky, whereunder Life moves to pledge delight;
You need no hope to bear The day through the day's care;
Your joys are all in sight.
You want not a word to tell What lies beyond our guess And springs like a sparkling well In a lovely speechlessness.
And we that have shaped with art Language of mind and of mart,
We have never yet found speech For the heart's blood deepest stirred:
Something is flown with a word Or is buried beneath our reach.
Our speech is spun from the pain Of thought and heavy with years,
And dyed with an ancient stain From passion and blood and tears.
But O,
I vow, when I hear Your wordless carol clear,
I would cast this speech that endures As a sorry old patchwork coat,
Could I but re--fill my throat With the liquid joy in yours.
