Words for the Hour/As it Is
AS IT IS.
My soul is weary of this chant of woeWhere rhyme attends on rhyme, as tear on tear;I sit beside the waning lamp, and waitSome vigorous voice to break the spell of fear.
Slow lustres lead us from the wild surpriseOf early sorrows—stranger following strange,Till in th' uncertain, billowy waste we seeNo law save this, of unsubstantial change.
In Childhood's Eden, Ill was ill at ease,The swift irruption of some demon foe,But the Grief-serpent fastens on the soul—Thenceforth the struggle to our life we owe.
Fate, that can raise a beggar to a throne,Mocks him and thee, can rob as well as give;From every lov'd possession thou mayst learnThat thou canst be bereft of it, and live.
A Queen, whose airy footsteps spurned the ground,Whose fingers were too fair for daintiest lips,Mends her worn kerchief for a felon's end,Scarce wondering at the desolate eclipse.
Or men to life by keen enjoyment wed,On th' unpitying wheel stretched suddenly,Tease the pale headsman for the boon withheldOf Death, their torture hunger's luxury.
We who aspire to harmonies divine,Taxing Creation for its master-tone,Soaring to heights untenable and crazedWere once the daring inspiration gone;
Let us be modest—we are rich to winOne jewel from the treasure-laden deep,Or, from the wreck of affluent loves, to holdA single faithful breast whereon to weep.
A breast to weep upon? oh! this at least,I cried, with outstretched arm, and sudden wail;Experience shuts our asking with one hope,Trust in thyself, and God, who cannot fail.