Man’s is the learning of his books—
What is all knowledge that he knows
Beside the wit of winding brooks,
The wisdom of the summer rose!
How soil distils the scent in flowers
Baffles his science: heaven-dyed,
How, from the sunshine and the showers,
They draw their colors, hath defied.
Nor hath he solved why light is white,
Yet paints with hues the dawns and noons,
Stains all the hollow edge of night
With glory as of molten moons.
What knows he of the laws of birth
Or death, or what these are and why!
Or what it is within the earth
That helps us live and helps us die!
THE BEAUTIFUL
I
Of moires of placid glitter
The moon is knitter,
Under dark trees, whose branches
The blue night blanches:
Upon yon stream’s swift arrow
Lights lie, as narrow
As is the glance of some pale sorceress,
Spell-haunted, watching in a wilderness.
And I, who, dreaming, wander,
Seem to behold her yonder,
My beautiful dream, my bodiless loveliness.
II
Upon this water’s glimmer
White sheets of shimmer
Glow outward, as if inner
Sea-castles,—thinner
Than peeléd pearl,—through curlings
And water whirlings,
Let spray the light of lucid dome and spire,
The smoldering silver of an inward fire.—
Perhaps her towers, enchanted,
Are there; on mountains planted
Of crystal:—hers! the soul of my desire!