Poems (Sackville)/The Man who found Truth
THE MAN WHO FOUND TRUTH
Whether the world was still consumed with strifeHe knew not, nor if Death still followed Life,Nor what of loss or gain there was, nor birth,What change or revolution held the earth.Nor whether Love, with subtle songs and deep,Yet lost men's souls, or if seduced by sleepLove lay and yielded up his crown to Fame.Only he knew that through the forest cameLong murmurs and sweet sounds of living things—The babbling voice of thicket-hidden springs, Drowsing of flies, winds musical and dim,Where, full of sighs, the branches waved o'er him.And where the lithe and glowing bracken spreadHe knew the intervening sunlight shedA stream of shrouded gold which flowed betweenThe cool transparency of lucid green—And evermore upon his sleeping eyesFlashed the bright wings of morning as they riseAnd make an opal of the waking skies.And when the drowsy day, not wholly gone,With clouds upon her forehead, lingers onTo welcome twilight with untroubled handsAnd quiet eyes, wherein a presence standsOf thought grown portion of the infinite—He saw upon her breast the parting lightFlash like a jewel, and when twilight grewA thing declared he heard the winds pursue With moaning cries sad clouds of brooding gloom.And how through dripping leaves and waste perfumeOf torn lost flowers the beating raindrops fallIn measured cadence wild and musical,And the sky heeds no more the earth's distress,But more than all he felt the tendernessOf twining weeds across his hands and feet—Convolvulus, which panting still to meetThe Dryad's heart lays bare his own sad loveIn heart-shaped foliage, and where perfumes moveEvident almost, honeysuckle wreaths—And nightshade, which from Proserpine receivesA deadly gift of slumber—passionateWild branching ivy and, insatiateStill after Love, the twining clematis— And on his ears fell ancient melodies,Which Pan from earliest days has taught the birds—A wild confusion of indefinite words,Echoes, for ever throbbing a reply,Till all his senses were o'erwhelmed thereby.
For he had wandered deaf with the world's cry,Searching that ancient, undiscovered spellMankind has sought from times unspeakable—That one strong word the gods knew when they wroughtAll things from chaos with a mighty thoughtOmnipotent, and men have named it Truth,And it has sapped the ardour of their youth,And all their days, long filled with grievous pain,And none has heard it yet, although the stain Of blood, which torn and questing hearts have shedHas turned the earth's green fields to bitter red.And he with yearning soul from land to landWandered, and held earth's wisdom in his hand,And cried, 'Lo, I am wise!' and slept and sawThe shadow of an undiscovered lawWas all his wisdom, and the ancient yearsDrew nigh with sacred mirth and pregnant tears,And eloquence of dim departed gods;And showed how earth's most lost and trodden sodsConcealed some human world-wide heritage—Some strange, deep memory of a former age.Until with bended knees and eyes sublimeWith wonder and new joy, he prayed to Time, And found in Time no more a god at all,But a poor jester at Life's festival—And Life himself a misty king of shade—And thus incontinent his spirit strayedEver from vain desire to vain desireTill Life and Death became one raging fireAnd sank to chaos, and above him leaptGaunt forms and all in vast confusion sweptDetesting light, then fearfully he cried:'There is no truth—no truth, the gods have liedTo man in making man,' but sudden sleepSoothed his sad fever, and where branches sweepCareless above a silent forest gladeHe lay and heard no more man's tired feet climbBy slow degrees the burning steps of Time—But slept, and saw in sleep the whole world fade. And like the sea's monotonous slow tune,Heard amongst dreams some burning afternoon,Even as a broken wave the old life spentIts strength and all its dull bewildermentOn the long wreckage of some hidden shore,Whilst to his soul a voice spoke evermore:'The Heavens are yours, the stars and all the earth,For you and they were of the selfsame birthAnd all the suns and seas are one with you.The little starving crowns that men pursueAre wrought outside the boundaries of life—What need, what need, what need is there for strife?Man's spirit sprang from the same harmony,The same perfection as the sky and sea—What need, what need, what need is there for strife, Seeing the gods are quiet, and their handsWeave from their quiet thoughts the cool green landsAnd soft continuous flow of life and death?Cease, cease a little while from fevered breathAnd fear which of confusion travaileth,And use the earth's pale beauty as a glassThrough which you may perceive the great gods passSeeing the gods are wholly beautiful.'This thing alone he knew, that through the lullOf ceasing strife all beauty came to him,And haunted his hushed spirit, and the dimSweet woodland rapture mingled with his blood—And evermore, as some reposeful floodMirrors the passing clouds and bending trees,So his receptive soul reflected full All Nature's manifest embroideries—And growing perfected and beautifulHe saw, through Beauty's pale and mystic glass,The quiet gods and all their wonders pass,And where the drowsy notes harmonious fallOf Life's still songs subdued and musicalHe heard within the sound his own soul's call.