COME then, as ever, like the wind at morning!
Joyous, O Youth, in the agàd world renew
to feel the eternities around it,
Rain, stars and clouds, light and the sacred dew.
The strong sun shines
That strength, that radiance bring!
If Winter come to Winter,
When shall men hope for Spring?
O WORLD, be nobler, for her sake!
If she but knew thee what thou art,
What wrongs are borne,
what deeds are done
In thee, beneath thy daily sun,
Knowst thou not that her tender heart
For pain and
very shame would break?
O World, be nobler, for her sake!
TARRY a moment, happy feet,
That to the sound of laughter glide!
O glad ones of the evening
Behold what forms are at your side!
You conquerors of the toilsome day
Pass by with laughter, labour done;
But these within their
Their travail sleeps not with the sun.
They, like dim statues without end,
Their patient attitudes maintain;
Your triumphing bright
But from your eager ways abstain.
Now, if you chafe in secret thought,
A moment turn from light distress,
And see how Fate on
these hath wrought,
Who yet so deeply acquiesce.
Behold them, stricken, silent, weak,
The maimd, the mute, the halt, the blind,
amid defeat to seek
The thing which they shall never find.
They haunt the shadows of your ways
In masks of perishable mould:
Their souls a changing
But they are changeless from of old.
Their lips repeat an empty call,
But silence wraps their thoughts around.
On them, like snow,
the ages fall;
Time muffles all this transient sound.
When Shalmaneser pitchd his tent
By Tigris, and his flag unfurld,
And forth his summons
Into the new unconquerd world;
Or when with spears Cambyses rode
Through Memphis and her bending slaves,
Or first the
Tyrian gazed abroad
Upon the bright vast outer waves;
When sages, star-instructed men,
To the young glory of Babylon
Foreknew no ending; even
Innumerable years had flown
Since first the chisel in her hand
Necessity, the sculptor, took,
And in her spacious meaning
These forms, and that eternal look;
These foreheads, moulded from afar,
These soft, unfathomable eyes,
Gazing from darkness,
like a star;
These lips, whose grief is to be wise.
As from the mountain marble rude
The growing statue rises fair,
She from immortal patience
The limbs of ever-young despair.
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