Already how am I so far... Out of that minute? Must I go Still like the thistle-ball, no bar, Onward, whenever light winds blow, Fixed by no friendly star? Just when I seemed about to learn! The old trick! Only I discern Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn. 1855. 55 60 Robert Browning. The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in his hand Who saith, "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!" Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, It yearned," Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" Not for such hopes and fears Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. 6 12 18 Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find a feast; As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast? Rejoice we are allied To that which doth provide And not partake, effect and not receive! Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of his tribes that take, I must believe. Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! For thence,-a paradox Which comforts while it mocks, Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. 24 What is he but a brute Whose flesh has soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? Yet gifts should prove their use: I own the Past profuse Of power each side, perfection every turn: Brain treasured up the whole; Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn"? Not once beat "Praise be thine! I see the whole design, I, who saw power, see now Love perfect too: Perfect I call thy plan: Thanks that I was a man! Maker, remake, complete,-I trust what thou shalt do!" For pleasant is this flesh; Our soul, in its rose-mesh Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: To match those manifold Possessions of the brute,--gain most, as we did best! 48 54 60 66 |