A Reasonable Protestation

[To F., who complained of his vagueness and lack of dogmatic statement]         Not, I suppose, since I deny         Appearance is reality,         And doubt the substance of the earth         Does your remonstrance come to birth;         Not that at once I both affirm         'Tis not the skin that makes the worm         And every tactile thing with mass         Must find its symbol in the grass         And with a cool conviction say         Even a critic's more than clay         And every dog outlives his day.         This kind of vagueness suits your view,         You would not carp at it; for you         Did never stand with those who take         Their pleasures in a world opaque.         For you a tree would never be         Lovely were it but a tree,         And earthly splendours never splendid         If by transience unattended.         Your eyes are on a farther shore         Than any of earth; nor do adore         As godhead God's dead hieroglyph.         Nor would you be perturbed if         Some prophet with a voice of thunder         And avalanche arm should blast and founder         The logical pillars that maintain         This visible world which loads the brain,         Loads the brain and withers the heart         And holds man from his God apart.         But still with you remains the craving         For some more solid substance, having         Surface to touch, colour to see,         And form compact in symmetry.         You are not satisfied with these         Vague throbbings, nameless ecstasies,         Nor can your spirit find delight         In an amorphic great white light.         Not with such sickles can you reap;         If a dense earth you cannot keep         You want a dense heaven as substitute         With trees of plump celestial fruit,         Red apples, golden pomegranates,         And a river flowing by tall gates         Of topaz and of chrysolite         And walls of twenty cubits height.         Frank, you cry out against the age!         Nor you nor I can disengage         Ourselves from that in which we live         Nor seize on things God does not give.         Thirsty as you, perhaps, I long         For courtyards of eternal song,         Even as yours my feet would stray         In a city where 'tis always day         And a green spontaneous leafy garden         With God in the middle for a warden;         But though I hope with strengthening faith         To taste when I have traversed death         The unimaginable sweetness         Of certitude of such concreteness,         How should I draw the hue and scope         Of substances I only hope         Or blaze upon a paper screen         The evidence of things not seen?         This art of ours but grows and stirs         Experience when it registers,         And you know well as I know well         This autumn of time in which we dwell         Is not an age of revelations         Solid as once, but intimations         That touch us with warm misty fingers         Leaving a nameless sense that lingers         That sight is blind and Time's a snare         And earth less solid than the air         And deep below all seeming things         There sits a steady king of kings         A radiant ageless permanence,         A quenchless fount of virtue whence         We draw our life; a sense that makes         A staunch conviction nothing shakes         Of our own immortality.         And though, being man, with certain glee         I eat and drink, though I suffer pain,         And love and hate and love again         Well or in mode contemptible,         Thus shackled by the body's spell         I see through pupils of the beast         Though it be faint and blurred with mist         A Star that travels in the East.         I see what I can, not what I will.         In things that move, things that are still;         Thin motion, even cloudier rest,         I see the symbols God hath drest.         The moveless trees, the trees that wave         The clouds that heavenly highways have,         Horses that run, rocks that are fixt,         Streams that have rest and motion mixt,         The main with its abiding flux,         The wind that up my chimney sucks         A mounting waterfall of flame,         Sticks, straws, dust, beetles and that same         Old blazing sun the Psalmist saw         A testifier to the law:         Divinely to the heart they speak         Saying how they are but weak,         Wan will-o'-the-wisps on the crystal sea;         But stays that sea still dark to me.         Did I now glibly insolent         Chart the ulterior firmament,         Would you not know my words were lies,         Where not my testimonial eyes         Mortal or spiritual lodge,         Mere uncorroborated fudge?         Praise me, though praise I do not want,         Rather, that I have cast much cant,         That what I see and feel I write,         Read what I can in this dim light         Granted to me in nether night.         And though I am vague and shrink to guess         God's everlasting purposes,         And never save in perplext dream         Have caught the least clear-shapen gleam         Of the great kingdom and the throne         In the world that lies behind our own,         I have not lacked my certainties,         I have not haggard moaned the skies,         Nor waged unnecessary strife         Nor scorned nor overvalued life.         And though you say my attitude         Is questioning, concede my mood         Does never bring to tongue or pen         Accents of gloomy modern men         Who wail or hail the death of God         And weigh and measure man the clod,         Or say they draw reluctant breath         And musically mourn that Death         Is a queen omnipotent of woe         And Life her lean cicisbeo,         Abject and pale, whom vampire-like         She playeth with ere she shall strike,         And pose sad riddles to the Sphinx         With raven quills in purple inks,         Then send the boy to fetch more drinks.