Blank Misgivings Of A Creature Moving About In Worlds Not Realised.

I     Here am I yet, another twelvemonth spent,     One-third departed of the mortal span,     Carrying on the child into the man,     Nothing into reality. Sails rent,     And rudder broken, reason impotent     Affections all unfixed; so forth I fare     On the mid seas unheedingly, so dare     To do and to be done by, well content.     So was it from the first, so is it yet;     Yea, the first kiss that by these lips was set     On any human lips, methinks was sin     Sin, cowardice, and falsehood; for the will     Into a deed een then advanced, wherein     God, unidentified, was thought-of still. II     Though to the vilest things beneath the moon     For poor Ease sake I give away my heart,     And for the moments sympathy let part     My sight and sense of truth, Thy precious boon,     My painful earnings, lost, all lost, as soon,     Almost, as gained: and though aside I start,     Belie Thee daily, hourly, still Thou art,     Art surely as in heaven the sun at noon;     How much so eer I sin, whateer I do     Of evil, still the sky above is blue,     The stars look down in beauty as before     It is enough to walk as best we may,     To walk, and sighing, dream of that blest day     When ill we cannot quell shall be no more. III     Well, well, Heaven bless you all from day to day!     Forgiveness too, or eer we part, from each,     As I do give it. so must I beseech     I owe all much, much more than I can pay;     Therefore it is I go; how could I stay     Where every look commits me to fresh debt,     And to pay little I must borrow yet I     Enough of this already, now away!     With silent woods and hills untenanted     Let me go commune; under thy sweet gloom,     O kind maternal Darkness, hide my head     The day may come I yet may re-assume     My place, and, these tired limbs recruited, seek     The task for which I now am all too weak. IV     Yes, I have lied, and so must walk my way,     Bearing the liars curse upon my head;     Letting my weak and sickly heart be fed     On food which does the present craving stay,     But may be clean-denied me een to-day,     And tho twere certain, yet were ought but bread;     Letting for so they say, it seems, I said,     And I am all too weak to disobey!     Therefore for me sweet Natures scenes reveal not     Their charm; sweet Music greets me and I feel not;     Sweet eyes pass off me uninspired; yea, more,     The golden tide of opportunity     Flows wafting-in friendships and better, I     Unseeing, listless, pace along the shore. V     How often sit I, poring oer     My strange distorted youth,     Seeking in vain, in all my store,     One feeling based on truth;     Amid the maze of petty life     A clue whereby to move,     A spot whereon in toil and strife     To dare to rest and love.     So constant as my heart would be,     So fickle as it must,     Twere well for others as for me     Twere dry as summer dust.     Excitements come, and act and speech     Flow freely forth; but no,     Nor they, nor ought beside can reach     The buried world below. VI     Like a child     In some strange garden left awhile alone,     I pace about the pathways of the world,     Plucking light hopes and joys from every stem,     With qualms of vague misgiving in my heart     That payment at the last will be required,     Payment I cannot make, or guilt incurred,     And shame to be endured. VII     Roused by importunate knocks     I rose, I turned the key, and let them in,     First one, anon another, and at length     In troops they came; for how could I, who once     Had let in one, nor looked him in the face,     Show scruples eer again? So in they came,     A noisy band of revellers, vain hopes,     Wild fancies, fitful joys; and there they sit     In my hearts holy place, and through the night     Carouse, to leave it when the cold grey dawn     Gleams from the East, to tell me that the time     For watching and for thought bestowed is gone. VIII     O kind protecting Darkness! as a child     Flies back to bury in its mothers lap     His shame and his confusion, so to thee,     O Mother Night, come I! within the folds     Of thy dark robe hide thou me close; for I     So long, so heedless, with external things     Have played the liar, that whateer I see,     Een these white glimmering curtains, yon bright stars,     Which to the rest rain comfort down, for me     Smiling those smiles, which I may not return,     Or frowning frowns of fierce triumphant malice,     As angry claimants or expectants sure     Of that I promised and may not perform,     Look me in the face! O hide me, Mother Night! IX     Once more the wonted road I tread,     Once more dark heavens above me spread,     Upon the windy down I stand,     My station whence the circling land     Lies mapped and pictured wide below;     Such as it was, such een again,     Long dreary bank, and breadth of plain     By hedge or tree unbroken; lo,     A few grey woods can only show     How vain their aid, and in the sense     Of one unaltering impotence,     Relieving not, meseems enhance     The sovereign dulness of the expanse.     Yet marks where human hand hath been,     Bare house, unsheltered village, space     Of ploughed and fenceless tilth between     (Such aspect as methinks may be     In some half-settled colony),     From Nature vindicate the scene;     A wide, and yet disheartening view,     A melancholy world.     Tis true,     Most true; and yet, like those strange smiles     By fervent hope or tender thought     From distant happy regions brought,     Which upon some sick bed are seen     To glorify a pale worn face     With sudden beauty, so at whiles     Lights have descended, hues have been,     To clothe with half-celestial grace     The bareness of the desert place.     Since so it is, so be it still!     Could only thou, my heart, be taught     To treasure, and in act fulfil     The lesson which the sight has brought;     In thine own dull and dreary state     To work and patiently to wait:     Little thou thinkst in thy despair     How soon the oershaded sun may shine,     And een the dulling clouds combine     To bless with lights and hues divine     That region desolate and bare,     Those sad and sinful thoughts of thine!     Still doth the coward heart complain;     The hour may come, and come in vain;     The branch that withered lies and dead     No suns can force to lift its head.     True! yet how little thou canst tell     How much in thee is ill or well;     Nor for thy neighbour nor for thee,     Be sure, was life designed to be     A draught of dull complacency.     One Power too is it, who doth give     The food without us, and within     The strength that makes it nutritive:     He bids the dry bones rise and live,     And een in hearts depraved to sin     Some sudden, gracious influence,     May give the long-lost good again,     And wake within the dormant sense     And love of good; for mortal men,     So but thou strive, thou soon shalt see     Defeat itself is victory.     So be it: yet, O Good and Great,     In whom in this bedarkened state     I fain am struggling to believe,     Let me not ever cease to grieve,     Nor lose the consciousness of ill     Within me; and refusing still     To recognise in things around     What cannot truly there be found,     Let me not feel, nor be it true,     That, while each daily task I do,     I still am giving day by day     My precious things within away     (Those thou didst give to keep as thine),     And casting, do whateer I may,     My heavenly pearls to earthly swine.