Thomas Edward Brown (1830–1897)

THE MAN that hath great griefs I pity not;

’Tis something to be great

In any wise, and hint the larger state,

Though but in shadow of a shade, God wot!

Moreover, while we wait the possible,

This man has touched the fact,

And probed till he has felt the core, where, packed

In pulpy folds, resides the ironic ill….

For thus it is God stings us into life,

Provoking actual souls

From bodily systems, giving us the poles

That are His own, not merely balanced strife …

Thrice happy such an one! Far other he

Who dallies on the edge

Of the great vortex, clinging to a sedge

Of patent good, a timorous Manichee …

For there is threefold oneness with the One;

And he is one, who keeps

The homely laws of life; who, if he sleeps,

Or wakes, in his true flesh God’s will is done …

But tenfold one is he, who feels all pains

Not partial, knowing them

As ripples parted from the gold-beaked stem,

Wherewith God’s galley onward ever strains.

To him the sorrows are the tension-thrills

Of that serene endeavour,

Which yields to God for ever and for ever

The joy that is more ancient than the hills.