Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will IN MEMORIAM. [Entstanden zwischen 1833 und 1849; veröffentlicht 1850.] STRONG SON OF GOD, IMMORTAL LOVE. STRONG Son of God, immortal Love, Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou wilt not leave us in the dust; Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, thou: Our little systems have their day; We have but faith: we cannot know; Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster. We are fools and slight; Forgive what seem'd my sin in me; Forgive these wild and wandering cries, VII. 1849. Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp'd no more- He is not here; but far away And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain VIII. A happy lover who has come. To look on her that loves him well, Who 'lights and rings the gateway bell, And learns her gone and far from home; He saddens, all the magic light Dies off at once from bower and hall, So find I every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber and the street, For all is dark where thou art not. Yet as that other, wandering there So seems it in my deep regret, And this poor flower of poesy Which little cared for fades not yet. But since it pleased a vanish'd eye, I go to plant it on his tomb, That if it can it there may bloom, Or dying, there at least may die. XVIII. 'Tis well; 'tis something; we may stand Where he in English earth is laid, And from his ashes may be made The violet of his native land. 'Tis little; but it looks in truth As if the quiet bones were blest Among familiar names to rest And in the places of his youth. Come then, pure hands, and bear the head That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep, And come, whatever loves to weep, And hear the ritual of the dead. Ah yet, ev'n yet, if this might be, That dies not, but endures with pain, XXII. The path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Thro' four sweet years arose and fell, From flower to flower, from snow to snow: And we with singing cheer'd the way, And, crown'd with all the season lent, And glad at heart from May to May: But where the path we walk'd began Who broke our fair companionship, And spread his mantle dark and cold, And wrapt thee formless in the fold, And dull'd the murmur on thy lip, And bore thee where I could not see And think, that somewhere in the waste The Shadow sits and waits for me. XXXIV. My own dim life should teach me this, This round of green, this orb of flame, In some wild Poet, when he works What then were God to such as I? 'Twere hardly worth my while to choose |