Poems (Hinxman)/Separation
For works with similar titles, see Separation.
SEPARATION.
As one that on some feat of strength intent,
Pausing, throws back his frame, holds in his breath,
And in such self-retraction seeks new force
For yet more strenuous effort,—so my heart,
Struggling with absence, distance, and with fate,
Will ofttimes gather in its swarming troop
Of thoughts and yearnings, holding them in poise
Suspended, if that haply from the leash
They with fresh impulse bounding forth may win
Some vantage o'er its sorrow,—may achieve
Some inner intercourse, some touch of soul
With that beloved one who claims them all.
Alas! how many, since the woods and fields
First saw the secret tears of suffering love,
How many, with such arts, such aims, such hopes,
Born of despair, have wrestled with their love!
And has it all been fruitless? Must we think
That all this strain and stress of constant love
Dies down into the past with selfish joys,
And narrow cares; with Nature's mists and hues,
With all the things that were not while they seemed?
O, lives not thence some record, somewhere stamped?
Works there not thence some power on time? or does
The faithful bosom of Eternity
Foster from this strong seed some far result?
Pausing, throws back his frame, holds in his breath,
And in such self-retraction seeks new force
For yet more strenuous effort,—so my heart,
Struggling with absence, distance, and with fate,
Will ofttimes gather in its swarming troop
Of thoughts and yearnings, holding them in poise
Suspended, if that haply from the leash
They with fresh impulse bounding forth may win
Some vantage o'er its sorrow,—may achieve
Some inner intercourse, some touch of soul
With that beloved one who claims them all.
Alas! how many, since the woods and fields
First saw the secret tears of suffering love,
How many, with such arts, such aims, such hopes,
Born of despair, have wrestled with their love!
And has it all been fruitless? Must we think
That all this strain and stress of constant love
Dies down into the past with selfish joys,
And narrow cares; with Nature's mists and hues,
With all the things that were not while they seemed?
O, lives not thence some record, somewhere stamped?
Works there not thence some power on time? or does
The faithful bosom of Eternity
Foster from this strong seed some far result?
April, 1851.