Nicholson & Lee, eds. The Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse. 1917.
Thomas Edward Brown (18301897)148. Pain
T
’Tis something to be great
In any wise, and hint the larger state,
Though but in shadow of a shade, God wot!
This man has touched the fact,
And probed till he has felt the core, where, packed
In pulpy folds, resides the ironic ill.
Lip-licking after-taste
Of glutinous rind, lo! this man hath made haste,
And pressed the sting that holds the central seat.
Provoking actual souls
From bodily systems, giving us the poles
That are His own, not merely balanced strife.
Which whoso can absorb,
Nor, querulous halting, violate their orb,
In him the mind of God is fullest wrought.
Who dallies on the edge
Of the great vortex, clinging to a sedge
Of patent good, a timorous Manichee;
And fritters it away
In eddies of disgust, that else might stay
His nerveless heart, and fix it to the course.
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.
Who schools himself to think
With the All-thinking, holding fast the link,
God-riveted, that bridges casual storms.
Not partial, knowing them
As ripples parted from the gold-beaked stem,
Wherewith God’s galley onward ever strains.
Of that serene endeavour,
Which yields to God for ever and for ever
The joy that is more ancient than the hills.