Not his the part to win the goal,
The flaming goal that flies before,
Into whose course the apples roll
Of self that stay the feet the more.
Beyond himself he shall not win
Whose aim is as a driven dust,
That his own soul must wander in,
Seeing no farther than his lust.
UNENCOURAGED ASPIRATION
Mine is the part of no companion hand
Of help, except my shadow’s silent self:
A moonlight traveller in Fancy’s land
Of leering gnome and hollow-laughing elf:
Whose forests deepen and whose moon goes down,
When night’s blind shadow shall usurp my own;
And, ’midst the dust and wreck of some old town,
The City of Dreams, I grope and fall alone.
INTERPRETED
What magic shall solve us the secret
Of beauty that’s born for an hour?
That gleams, in the flight of an egret,
Or swoons, in the scent of a flower,
With death for a dower?
What leaps in the bosk but a satyr?
What pipes in the wind but a faun?
What blooms in the waters that scatter
But limbs of a nymph that is gone,
When we walk in the dawn?
What sings on the hills but a fairy?
Or sighs in the fields but a sprite?
What breathes through the leaves but the airy
Dim spirits of shadow and light,
When we walk in the night?
Behold how the world-heart is eager
To draw us and hold us and claim!
Through truths of the dreams that beleaguer
Her soul she makes ours the same,
And death but a name.