Those were our freedoms, and we come to this: The climbing road that lures the climbing feet Is lost: there lies no mist above the wheat, Where-thro' to glimpse the silver precipice, Far off, about whose base the white seas hiss In spray; the world grows narrow and complete; We have lost our perils in the certain sweet; We have sold our great horizon for a kiss.
To every hill there is a lowly slope, But some have heights beyond all height--so high They make new worlds for the adventuring eye. We for achievement have forgone our hope, And shall not see another morning ope, Nor the new moon come into the new sky.
Where is our freedom sought, and where to seek? The voices of the various world agree The future's ours: to hope is to be free: Only to doubt, to fear, is to be weak. Have you not felt upon your calm clear cheek The kiss of the bright wind of liberty? What more is there to ask, what more to be? Peace, peace, my soul, and let the silence speak!
To hope is to be free? Nay, hope's a slave To every chance; hope is the same as fear; Hope trembles at the wind, the star, the wave, The voice, the mood, the music; hope stands near The chilly threshold of the waiting grave, And when the silence speaks, hope does not hear.
In the old days came freedom with a sword. Ev'n so; but also freedom came with wings Fanning the faint and purple bloom that clings To the great twilight where our dreams are stored. Freedom was what the waters would afford That yet obeyed the white moon's whisperings, And freedom leapt and listened in the strings Of dulcimer and lute and clavichord.
In the old days? But those old days are now. O merciful, O bright, O valiant brow, Can you seek freedom that way and I this? Not in the single note is music free, But where creation's climbing fires agree In multitudes, in nights, in silences.
Shall we mark off our little patch of power From time's compulsive process? Shall we sit With memory, warming our weak hands at it, And say: "So be it; we have had one hour"? Surely the mountains are a better dower, With their dark scope and cloudy infinite, Than small perfection, trivial exquisite; 'Mid all that dark the brightness of a flower!
Lovers are not themselves: they are more, they are all: For them are past and future spread together Like a green landscape lit by golden weather: For them the rhythmic change conjectural Of time and place is but the question whether Their God shall stand (as stand he must) or fall.