Poems (Hardy)/The rainbow
For works with similar titles, see The rainbow.
THE RAINBOW
AS to the perfect round, ere it be gone, My thought will flash that wondrous arc,By sun and rain inevitably drawn Upon the opposing distant darkOf cloudy sky or thinnest lawn Of hovering mist, I harkTo some clear voice that, like the dawn, Arises, making morning in the mind.
It bids me findThe center of events that seemIrrelevant as a dream,The accidents of time and space;It bids me never traceThe pattern of myself upon a life To measure what may be its worth,Nor think that, since I see no strife, But only blue-sky living, joy and mirth,I know the curve that sweeps awayInto the unfathomed soul's interior day;
It bids me frame, with lofty fear,More purpose into day and year,Since that I live at all may flameInto a sunrise for a soul,Or flare into a sunset of eternal dole.
It bids me drawAn arc of splendor without flaw,Of faith and hope and love, these three,About this point, this life; an arc to beFull-rounded in eternity.