[OUT OF THE DEEP]
THY soul grows silent, when its accents are
Disturbed, and low thy heart, when dark a burden
Has deeply covered it. Thy soul is proud.
When thou hast made it free of wants and wishes,
Then art thou rich.
Our life is seldom open,
For love and fear have shut it. When we lay
It open, there is nought to show in it,
But wounds and burning pain.
Mysterious is
Thy power, great as it may be, a trial
Of thine own will and of the curb upon
Thyself; mysterious to thyself, the more,
The greater it has grown, surrounded as
We are by fear and pain.
And when the soul
Lifts up her voice and speaks, then must she go
Against the will of people, not her own,
The will that is herself, the soul's own might.
When heaven asks, we work with joy, a dear
Beloved business put into our hands.
We dream at first to make it daintily,
Like Nature's work, so careful and so rich,
And then the dream becomes a wish, then changes
To action, to be called by us our own
Free will. And when we feel alleviated
Of suffering, we call it hope. In each
Hard battle of our life, free will is quite
The same, unbending and undone, and gave
Us never yet a ray of satisfaction,
Nor of real joy, the bleeding conqueror.
And hope is e'er the same. It dwelleth not
In hearts that are too great for hope, too great
For wishes, and that fearless never ask
Why will is but obedience, power worthless,
The greatest strength a reed, and thought an echo.
Great hearts are free of either want or wish;
They may be proud and richly clothe themselves
In lofty, burdenless, mysterious Silence.
[A CORONATION]
WHEN in Bohemia there were kings and queens,
The crown was laid upon the head that had
To bear and to exalt it—on the King's,
And then upon the shoulder of the Queen.
The shoulder bears the weight, the head the burden;
The shoulder lifts, the head must carry. Great
For both the heaviness, the endless pain,
For both the thorns, for both hard labour, thankless
Unending work, the sorrow of their people,
The care of each and all, the scorching tears
Of all, that make their path a desert, and
Their robe so heavy, as if dew had changed
Into the icy hangings of the frost.
The shoulder oftentimes is wounded by
The crown, the head bowed low, the heart so heavy,
Much heavier than all that heavy weight,
And yet doth woman's frail and bending shoulder
Resist the load, and still her smiling eyes
And gentle lips make all the world believe
Her shoulder bleedeth not, her toil is easy,
The load they put upon her without asking
How great her strength, is like a toy. Oh, smile!
Ye heavy-laden Queens! Let not a sigh
Escape your loving hearts, and no complaint
Break from the lips God made to heal and bless!
Oh, smile! The world doth not forgive its slaves
For looking overworked. If thou canst bear
No more, then change the shoulder, tired Queen!