XV
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Oh, every soul is only pain embalmed; And every torment is but bliss's sting. Humanity lies gasping and becalmed Upon a torrid ocean; and no wing Of albatross is seen—nor e'er was seen— Our worldly hope is dead—yet rules as king. Dust, ashes, ashes, dust, upon these lean All of the upward struggle of mankind; And pain, unending pain, is all they glean. Goddess of pain, O mistress of the mind, Art thou the Soul of life? Or hast thou palmed Thyself on men once happy? Have we pined Forever? Can our spirits e'er be calmed; Or is the spirit only pain embalmed? |
XVI
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But what of art? Can art no solace hold, No soothing spikenard, soporose drug or wine To woo the wounded soul? Must men grow old In agony? Or has some thought divine Slipped down upon us, cool, compassionate? But what of art? Can art's frail power refine Our souls into that Oversoul, and mate The each with All in one, sublime design? Art is the vision of that Truth innate In man. A soul, prismatic, crystalline, May show each glow of being with each strife At once reflected and becalmed, and twine Then into some new, inward world all rife With spirit blisses of a spirit life. |
XVII
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Eternal art can triumph over pain; And once we breathe the lotus-fragrance deep, The world may scream with iron tongue in vain, For all the argosy is soothed to sleep. The ships may rot forever on the sand; And far off Greece may wait and faintly weep. More rare than spice from silken Samarkand, More sorrow-sweet than young Francesca's tears, More fair than yearning night upon the strand, And more majestic than Anchises' years: Beauty's the image, not the thing. 'Tis shod With rainbow lightnings of the hopes and fears, And knows each step humanity may plod. Art is the Beauty of the face of God. |