64
A DRAMA OF EXILE.
Infant voices passing in the wind. O we live, O we live— And this life that we receive, Is a warm thing and a new, Which we softly bud into, From the heart and from the brain,— Something strange, that overmuch is Of the sound and of the sight, Flowing round in trickling touches, In a sorrow and delight,— Yet is it all in vain? Rock us softly, Lest it be all in vain. Youthful voices passing. O we live, O we live— And this life that we achieve, Is a loud thing and a bold, Which, with pulses manifold, Strikes the heart out full and fain— Active doer, noble liver, Strong to struggle, sure to conquer,— Though the vessel's prow will quiver At the lifting of the anchor: Yet do we strive in vain? Infant voices passing. Rock us softly, Lest it be all in vain. Poet voices passing. O we live, O we live— And this life that we conceive, Is a clear thing and a fair, Which we set in crystal air, That its beauty may be plain: With a breathing and a flooding Of the heaven-life on the whole, While we hear the forests budding To the music of the soul— Yet is it tuned in vain?
