Posthumous Poems/In the Twilight
IN THE TWILIGHT
Lord, is it daytime or night? Failure, Lord, or success?Speak to us, answer us, thou:Surely the light of thy browGave us, giveth us, light,Dark be the season or bright, Strong to support or suppress.
Thou, with eyes to the east, Beautiful, vigilant eyes;Father, Comforter, Chief,Joy be it with us or grief,Season of funeral or feast,Careful of thine, of thy least, Careful who lives and who dies.
Soul and Spirit of all, Keeping the watch of the world, All through the night-watches, there Gazing through turbulent air Standest; how shall we fall? What should afflict or appal, Though the streamers of storm be unfurled?
All the noise of the night, All the thunder of things,All the terrors be hurledOf the blind brute-force of the world,All the weight of the fight,Al men's violent might, All the confluence of Kings;
Rouse all earth against us, Hurl all heaven against thee?Though it be thus, though it were,Speak to us, if thou be there,Save, tho' indeed it be thusThen that the dolorous Stream sweeps off to the sea.
Lift up heads that are hidden, Strengthen hearts that are faint;Lighten on eyes that are blindTo the poor of thy kind,Courage their lives over-ridden,Smitten how sorely and chidden Sharply with reins of restraint.
Peace, it may be he will say, Somewhat, if yet ye will hearSome great word of a chiefAsk not of joy, neither grief, Ask nothing more of the day,Not whether night be away, Not whether comfort be near,
Seek not after a token; Ask not what of the night,Nor what the end of it brings:Seek after none of these things.What though nothing were spoken,Nothing, though all we were broken, Shewn as seen of the light?
What if the morning awake Never of us to be seen?Yet, if we die, if we live,That which we have will we give,That which is with us we take,Borne in our hands for her sake Who shall be and is and hath been.
She though we die we shall find Surely, though far she be fled,Nay, if we find not at last,We, though we die and go past,Yet shall we leave her behind,Leave to the sons of our kind Men that come after us dead.
These shall say of us then; "Freedom they had not as we, Yet were none of them slaves;Free they lie in their graves,Our fathers, the ancient of men,Souls that awake not again Free, as we living were free."
Then, if remembrance remain, Shall we not seeing have saidOut of the place where we lieHearing, rejoice and reply;Men of a world without stainSons of men that in vain Lie not for love of you dead.
1867.