Poems (Jordan)/Life
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For works with similar titles, see Life.
LIFE
The longest story shaped by lips, left something still untold;
A bigger measure than it gives, Life's silent side doth hold;
Disjointed actions men may take, and call it life, entire,
When writing a biography—'tis all that we require,
For that one does not live who could his inner life lay bare,
Nor ever lived one who for such revelation strange, would care!
We cannot count our own life's pulse, much less our brothers, then,
Where all the blood's strong coursing hides beneath the surface vein!
A bigger measure than it gives, Life's silent side doth hold;
Disjointed actions men may take, and call it life, entire,
When writing a biography—'tis all that we require,
For that one does not live who could his inner life lay bare,
Nor ever lived one who for such revelation strange, would care!
We cannot count our own life's pulse, much less our brothers, then,
Where all the blood's strong coursing hides beneath the surface vein!
We cannot see within; man's actions only form a wall
About his inner life; 'tis when his word best covers all
Than silence could, that he allows his trembling lips to speak;
He laughs to hide from us that, 'neath, his heart doth break!
But shall we say, each laugh we hear, some secret tear enfolds?
Nay, this but shows the self-same act such diff'rent meaning holds!
We cannot tell by sighs, if caused by Joy or Pain,
Nor tell, when lips are singing, Life's meter to the strain!
About his inner life; 'tis when his word best covers all
Than silence could, that he allows his trembling lips to speak;
He laughs to hide from us that, 'neath, his heart doth break!
But shall we say, each laugh we hear, some secret tear enfolds?
Nay, this but shows the self-same act such diff'rent meaning holds!
We cannot tell by sighs, if caused by Joy or Pain,
Nor tell, when lips are singing, Life's meter to the strain!
Let sudden bliss or grief, for one fleet moment, throw aside
The heart's closed door; its first—and strongest—impulse is to hide;
And by the very act or wish of hiding, it reveals
The fact that something stranger still its opening conceals!
A tiny grave may measure some life's longest hope,
And the influence vased therein keep his best nature up,—
And Faith may use this little line and measure to the skies;—
Ah, we can measure not by length, but depth, of Life's real size!
The heart's closed door; its first—and strongest—impulse is to hide;
And by the very act or wish of hiding, it reveals
The fact that something stranger still its opening conceals!
A tiny grave may measure some life's longest hope,
And the influence vased therein keep his best nature up,—
And Faith may use this little line and measure to the skies;—
Ah, we can measure not by length, but depth, of Life's real size!
Could we put feeling into words, the words must needs, would live,
And the whole world might tremble at the tale one life would give!
We mask and mantle thus, Life's Body, in its outer Robe,—
And if deformed or beautiful man's knowledge cannot probe.
Measure a life by acts! Write a Biography, you say,—
A man could not write his own life as it is, day by ay,
While actions lie in Motive's weird embrace and Silence holds
Its hand upon the very Heart of Life, no Tongue Life's tale unfolds!
And the whole world might tremble at the tale one life would give!
We mask and mantle thus, Life's Body, in its outer Robe,—
And if deformed or beautiful man's knowledge cannot probe.
Measure a life by acts! Write a Biography, you say,—
A man could not write his own life as it is, day by ay,
While actions lie in Motive's weird embrace and Silence holds
Its hand upon the very Heart of Life, no Tongue Life's tale unfolds!