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!
Where is the thread now? Off again!

The old trick! Only I discern

Infinite passion, and the pain

Of finite hearts that yearn.

1855.

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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,
Which lily leave and then as best recall?"
Not that, admiring stars,

It yearned," Nor Jove, nor Mars;

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!"

Not for such hopes and fears
Annulling youth's brief years,

Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!
Rather I prize the doubt

Low kinds exist without,

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a

spark.

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18

Poor vaunt of life indeed,

Were man but formed to feed

On joy, to solely seek and find a feast;
Such feasting ended, then

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!
A spark disturbs our clod;

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,
Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!

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.

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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:
Eyes, ears took in their dole,

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:
Would we some prize might hold

To match those manifold

Possessions of the brute,--gain most, as we did

best!

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