Poems (Greenwell)/In Illness
For works with similar titles, see In Illness.
IN ILLNESS.
I sunk beneath the wave Of sleep, not drawn as oft by visions light And soothing as the hand of Mermaid white, But by intolerable pangs that drave Me downwards, plunging like a diver keen For some unrestful pause, some blank between The fiery chinks of anguish, dimly seen And deeply longed for; yet I might not stir. All day, beneath a cruel armourer,The Hours—like weary slaves—slow, silent, pale,Wrought link by link their iron mesh of mail About my senses; now a brief escape I won, but after me a wingèd shape, Most like a wild and weird musician, threw His hand 'mid shattered chords, and did renew The day's slow-dying torture. It was Pain That held me—only lengthening out its chain. And through its glare unmitigable drew Strange forms from out the darkness;—oh, the steep, Rock-girdled citadel of rest to gain, And so escape them! but I strove in vain; For sleep hath its two Worlds! a lower deep Within its deep still opens! Night is kind As is the Day, so one doth fold behind Its light, and one in darkness shroud a worn And spectral Realm; but now the veil was torn, The gulf yawned wide, and down amid the waste And leavings of existence, charred, defaced—It sucked my soul; 'mid living agonies I walked, on old disquietudes forlorn I stumbled as I trode; I saw them rise And point at me, a lifetime's mockeries, The dreary phantasms of giants shorn And crippled of their strength; on swords that gleamed 'Mid oozy weeds, deep bedded to their hilt,—I gazed, and seemed no more like one that dreamed. Once were these girt for valiant enterprise; I know not now if it were sloth or guilt That rusted them, for all things did perplex My spirit, dragging it among the wrecks Of heart and brain; hard stony eyes were set On mine, with endless questionings that met No answer;
No answer;Then I know not how the strife Gave way; and passing through that outer court Of giddy cries confused, I gained the shrine Where sleep is kindest, holiest: too divine Those eyes of hers for sadness, and for sport Her brow too tender! Then she laid on mine Her hand, she pressed it with a hallowed sign,—And all its throbbings vanished;
It was Night I stood with thee within a garden; Night, Yet never hath the Noonday been so fair, For all the air was luminous, and white Was every flower that grew around us there; We did not marvel at their fragrance rare; Their bloom was but the breathing in of light That paled into a subtle odour; these Were gentle ghosts of flowers that other where Bloomed many-coloured 'neath familiar trees; Now calm as spirits passed away in prayer, Large-leaved and beautiful the Jessamine Hung forth her stars; the Rose did half resign Her empire with her blush, and over all The Lily reared her blossomed sceptre tall; While at our feet the Violet's purple fled Would whisper mutely of a wound that bled No longer, then I know not what delight Fell on our asking spirits that addressed Each other on the silence, "All is drest For Death or for the Bridal, each is white And each is solemn, each hath won for guest An Angel, and we know not which is best."