Poems (Hooper)/Yearning

by Lucy Hamilton Hooper

For works with similar titles, see Yearning.

YEARNING.

Nun wandelt von den Bergen sacht.

Down from the mount, with footstep light,
Glides to the lake the summer night;
Throughout its deepest shades I go
The while with dreams my soul doth glow;
The blossomed vine, with fragrance rare,
Intoxicates the passing air;
The glow-worm weaves its path of light
 Unto the tower walls afar,
And overhead with deepest fire
 Looks down on me each mystic star.

This is the hour when yearning strong
Fashions the scented air to song;
Yearning that, deep in rock, wood, dell,
In every creature's heart doth dwell;
Yearning that with resistless might
Forces through rocks the spring to light.
It bids the forest stretch to heav'n
 Its thousand verdant arms in vain;
It rings as echoes from the cliff;
 It wanders in the wind's wild strain:
We hear it in the music-wails
Of silver-throated nightingales;
And from the mild eyes of the flow'rs
Its silent soul looks up to ours.

O Yearning! thou who, like a child,
 Though lulled with sweetest songs asleep,
Dost ever waken and arise
 Only anew to wail and weep,
How dost thou heart and soul to-day
With thy complaining bear away!
Oh would that I might pinions wear
And disembodied cleave the air!
I must bestow with willing mind
All that my being holds enshrined;
My overflowing heart's whole treasure,
Love, reverence, and pain, and pleasure;
All that my inmost heart holds stored—
All, must I, in a single word,
As in one golden cup fling free,
Then pour all spendthrift forth to thee.

In vain! No word, however great,
Can free us from the force of fate;
To quench the soul's thirst we may bring
The waters of no earthly spring.
Ah! once I dreamed in golden hours—
 The sunny May-time of the heart—
That I the mystic secret knew,
 That Love could bid all pangs depart;
What then I prized, what held so dear,
Is mine—the yearning still is here.

Then rest, O troubled heart! and know
Not every bloom to fruit doth grow;
Thou bear'st in thee, Earth's silent guest,
What seeketh heaven with wild unrest,
What drives thee ever on thy way
 Of darkness and of weariness;
It is the first thrill of the wings
 Inclosed within the chrysalis;
Thyself scarce know'st thy pang to be
Homesickness for Eternity.
Geibel.