Thou, drugging pain by patience; half averse
From thine own mother's breast, that knows not thee;
With eyes which sought thine eyes thou didst converse,
And that soul-searching vision fell on me.
Glooms that go deep as thine, I have not known;
Moods of fantastic sadness, nothing worth.
Thy sorrow and thy calmness are thine own;
Glooms that enhance and glorify this earth.
What mood wears like complexion to thy woe?
His, who in mountain glens, at noon of day,
Sits rapt, and hears the battle break below?
—Ah! thine was not the shelter, but the fray.
Some exile's, mindful how the past was glad?
Some angel's, in an alien planet born?
—No exile's dream was ever half so sad,
Nor any angel's sorrow so forlorn.
Is the calm thine of stoic souls, who weigh
Life well, and find it wanting, nor deplore;
But in disdainful silence turn away,
Stand mute, self-centred, stern, and dream no more?
Or do I wait, to hear some gray-haired king
Unravel all his many-colored lore;
Whose mind hath known all arts of governing,
Mused much, loved life a little, loathed it more?
Down the pale cheek, long lines of shadow slope,
Which years, and curious thought, and suffering give.
—Thou hast foreknown the vanity of hope,
Foreseen thy harvest, yet proceed'st to live.
