Heaving dumbly As we deem, Moulding numbly As in dream, Apprehending not how fare the sentient subjects of Its scheme.
Nay;--shall not Its blindness break? Yea, must not Its heart awake, Promptly tending To Its mending In a genial germing purpose, and for loving-kindness' sake?
Should It never Curb or cure Aught whatever Those endure Whom It quickens, let them darkle to extinction swift and sure.
But a stirring thrills the air, Like to sounds of joyance there That the rages Of the ages Shall be cancelled, and deliverance offered from the darts that were, Consciousness the Will informing, till It fashion all things fair!
Sing, Ballad-singer, raise a hearty tune; Make me forget that there was ever a one I walked with in the meek light of the moon When the day's work was done.
Rhyme, Ballad-rhymer, start a country song; Make me forget that she whom I loved well Swore she would love me dearly, love me long, Then--what I cannot tell!
Sing, Ballad-singer, from your little book; Make me forget those heart-breaks, achings, fears; Make me forget her name, her sweet sweet look-- Make me forget her tears.
The world's gone forward to its latest fair And dropt an old man done with by the way, To sit alone among the bats and stare At miles and miles and miles of moorland bare Lit only with last shreds of dying day.
Not all the world, not all the world's gone by; Old man, you're like to meet one traveller still, A journeyman well kenned for courtesy To all that walk at odds with life and limb; If this be he now riding up the hill Maybe he'll stop and take you up with him....
"But thou art Death?" "Of Heavenly Seraphim None else to seek thee out and bid thee come." "I only care that thou art come from Him, Unbody me--I'm tired--and get me home."
Time, you old gipsy man, Will you not stay, Put up your caravan Just for one day?
All things I'll give you Will you be my guest, Bells for your jennet Of silver the best, Goldsmiths shall beat you A great golden ring, Peacocks shall bow to you, Little boys sing, Oh, and sweet girls will Festoon you with may, Time, you old gipsy, Why hasten away?
Last week in Babylon, Last night in Rome, Morning, and in the crush Under Paul's dome; Under Paul's dial You tighten your rein, Only a moment And off once again; Off to some city Now blind in the womb, Off to another Ere that's in the tomb.