Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.
VI. ConsolationDe Profundis
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (18061861)T
Rose up for me with life begun,
To mark all bright hours of the day
With daily love, is dimmed away—
And yet my days go on, go on.
Smooth music from the roughest stone,
And every morning with “Good day”
Make each day good, is hushed away—
And yet my days go on, go on.
For mine to lean and rest upon,
The strongest on the longest day,
With steadfast love is caught away—
And yet my days go on, go on.
“This anguish pierces to the bone.”
And tender friends go sighing round,
“What love can ever cure this wound?”
My days go on, my days go on.
And makes all night. O dreams begun,
Not to be ended! Ended bliss!
And life, that will not end in this!
My days go on, my days go on.
As one alone, once not alone,
I sit and knock at Nature’s door,
Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,
Whose desolated days go on.
Is there no help, no comfort—none?
No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains
Where others drive their loaded wains?
My vacant days go on, go on.
Thinks kindly of the bird of June.
The little red hip on the tree
Is ripe for such. What is for me,
Whose days so winterly go on?
And dare not ask an equal boon.
Good nests and berries red are Nature’s
To give away to better creatures—
And yet my days go on, go on.
Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon
(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet
Cool deathly touch to these tired feet,
Till days go out which now go on.
From off the earth where it has grown,
Some cubit-space, and say, “Behold,
Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold,
Forgetting how the days go on.”
More sweet than Nature’s, when the drone
Of bees is sweetest, and more deep
Than when the rivers overleap
The shuddering pines, and thunder on.
He sits upon the great white throne,
And listens for the creature’s praise.
What babble we of days and days?
The Dayspring he, whose days go on!
Systems burn out and leave his throne:
Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall
Around him, changeless amid all—
Ancient of days, whose days go on!
And having life in love forgone
Beneath the crown of sovran thorns,
He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns
Or rules with
I hear him charge his saints that none
Among the creatures anywhere
Blaspheme against him with despair,
However darkly days go on.
No mortal grief deserves that crown.
O supreme Love, chief misery,
The sharp regalia are for Thee,
Whose days eternally go on!
Thou knowest, willest what is done.
Grief may be joy misunderstood:
Only the Good discerns the good.
I trust Thee while my days go on.
We will not struggle nor impugn.
Perhaps the cup was broken here
That Heaven’s new wine might show more clear.
I praise Thee while my days go on.
I love Thee while my days go on!
Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,
With emptied arms and treasure lost,
I thank thee while my days go on!
Being and suffering (which are one),
As a child drops some pebble small
Down some deep well, and hears it fall
Smiling—so I! T