Pain and Despair

Wolfe demanded during dying

678

Wolfe demanded during dying
"Which obtain the Day"?
"General, the British"-"Easy"
Answered Wolfe "to die"

Montcalm, his opposing Spirit
Rendered with a smile
"Sweet" said he "my own Surrender
Liberty's beguile"

We dream—it is good we are dreaming

531

We dream—it is good we are dreaming—
It would hurt us—were we awake—
But since it is playing—kill us,
And we are playing—shriek—


What harm? Men die—externally—
It is a truth—of Blood—
But we—are dying in Drama—
And Drama—is never dead—


Cautious—We jar each other—
And either—open the eyes—
Lest the Phantasm—prove the Mistake—
And the livid Surprise


Cool us to Shafts of Granite—
With just an Age—and Name—
And perhaps a phrase in Egyptian—
It's prudenter—to dream—

'Twas warm—at first—like Us

519

'Twas warm—at first—like Us—
Until there crept upon
A Chill—like frost upon a Glass—
Till all the scene—be gone.


The Forehead copied Stone—
The Fingers grew too cold
To ache—and like a Skater's Brook—
The busy eyes—congealed—


It straightened—that was all—
It crowded Cold to Cold—
It multiplied indifference—
As Pride were all it could—


And even when with Cords—
'Twas lowered, like a Weight—
It made no Signal, nor demurred,
But dropped like Adamant.

'Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch

414

'Twas like a Maelstrom, with a notch,
That nearer, every Day,
Kept narrowing its boiling Wheel
Until the Agony


Toyed coolly with the final inch
Of your delirious Hem-
And you dropt, lost,
When something broke-
And let you from a Dream-


As if a Goblin with a Gauge-
Kept measuring the Hours-
Until you felt your Second
Weigh, helpless, in his Paws-


And not a Sinew-stirred-could help,
And sense was setting numb-
When God-remembered-and the Fiend
Let go, then, Overcome-


As if your Sentence stood-pronounced-
And you were frozen led
From Dungeon's luxury of Doubt
To Gibbets, and the Dead-


And when the Film had stitched your eyes
A Creature gasped "Reprieve"!
Which Anguish was the utterest-then-
To perish, or to live?

Twas Crisis—All the length had passed

'Twas Crisis—All the length had passed—
That dull—benumbing time
There is in Fever or Event—
And now the Chance had come—


The instant holding in its claw
The privilege to live
Or warrant to report the Soul
The other side the Grave.


The Muscles grappled as with leads
That would not let the Will—
The Spirit shook the Adamant—
But could not make it feel.


The Second poised—debated—shot—
Another had begun—
And simultaneously, a Soul
Escaped the House unseen—

To put this World down, like a Bundle

527

To put this World down, like a Bundle-
And walk steady, away,
Requires Energy-possibly Agony'
Tis the Scarlet way

Trodden with straight renunciation
By the Son of God-
Later, his faint Confederates
Justify the Road-

Flavors of that old Crucifixion-
Filaments of Bloom, Pontius Pilate sowed-
Strong Clusters, from Barabbas' Tomb-

Sacrament, Saints partook before us-
Patent, every drop,
With the Brand of the Gentile Drinker
Who indorsed the Cup-

To learn the Transport by the Pain

167

To learn the Transport by the Pain
As Blind Men learn the sun!
To die of thirst-suspecting
That Brooks in Meadows run!


To stay the homesick-homesick feet
Upon a foreign shore-
Haunted by native lands, the while-
And blue-beloved air!


This is the Sovereign Anguish!
This-the signal woe!
These are the patient "Laureates"
Whose voices-trained-below-


Ascend in ceaseless Carol-
Inaudible, indeed,
To us-the duller scholars
Of the Mysterious Bard!

'Tis true—They shut me in the Cold

538

'Tis true—They shut me in the Cold—
But then—Themselves were warm
And could not know the feeling 'twas—
Forget it—Lord—of Them—


Let not my Witness hinder Them
In Heavenly esteem—
No Paradise could be—Conferred
Through Their beloved Blame—


The Harm They did—was short—And since
Myself—who bore it—do—
Forgive Them—Even as Myself—
Or else—forgive not me—

'Tis not that Dying hurts us so

335

'Tis not that Dying hurts us so'
Tis Living-hurts us more-
But Dying-is a different way-
A Kind behind the Door-

The Southern Custom-of the Bird-
That ere the Frosts are due-
Accepts a better LatitudeWe-
are the Birds-that stay.

The Shrivers round Farmers' doors-
For whose reluctant Crumb-
We stipulate-till pitying Snows
Persuade our Feathers Home.

'Tis good-the looking back on Grief

660

'Tis good-the looking back on Grief-
To re-endure a Day-
We thought the Mighty Funeral-
Of All Conceived Joy-

To recollect how Busy Grass
Did meddle-one by one-
Till all the Grief with Summer-waved
And none could see the stone.

And though the Woe you have Today
Be larger-As the Sea
Exceeds its Unremembered DropThey're
Water-equally-

Till Death—is narrow Loving

907

Till Death—is narrow Loving—
The scantest Heart extant
Will hold you till your privilege
Of Finiteness—be spent—

But He whose loss procures you
Such Destitution that
Your Life too abject for itself
Thenceforward imitate—

Until—Resemblance perfect—
Yourself, for His pursuit
Delight of Nature—abdicate—
Exhibit Love—somewhat—

Through the strait pass of suffering

792

Through the strait pass of suffering-
The Martyrs-even-trod.
Their feet-upon Temptations-
Their faces-upon God-

A stately-shriven-CompanyConvulsion-
playing roundHarmless-
as streaks of Meteor-
Upon a Planet's Bond-

Their faith-the everlasting troth-
Their Expectation-fair-
The Needle-to the North DegreeWades-
so-thro' polar Air!

There's a certain Slant of light (258)

There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons--
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes--


Heavenly Hurt, it gives us--
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are--


None may teach it--Any-'
Tis the Seal Despair--
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the air--


When it comes, the Landscape listens-Shadows--
hold their breath--
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death--

There is a pain—so utter

599

There is a pain—so utter—
It swallows substance up—
Then covers the Abyss with Trance—
So Memory can step
Around—across—upon it—
As one within a Swoon—
Goes safely—where an open eye—
Would drop Him—Bone by Bone.

There is a Languor of the Life

396

There is a Languor of the Life
More imminent than Pain'
Tis Pain's Successor-When the Soul
Has suffered all it can-

A Drowsiness-diffuses-
A Dimness like a Fog
Envelops Consciousness-
As Mists-obliterate a Crag.

The Surgeon-does not blanch-at pain
His Habit-is severe-
But tell him that it ceased to feel-
The Creature lying there-

And he will tell you-skill is late-
A Mightier than He-
Has ministered before HimThere's
no Vitality.

The Whole of it came not at once

762

The Whole of it came not at once'
Twas Murder by degrees-
A Thrust-and then for Life a chance-
The Bliss to cauterize-

The Cat reprieves the Mouse
She eases from her teeth
Just long enough for Hope to tease-
Then mashes it to death


'Tis Life's award-to die-
Contenteder if once-
Than dying half-then rallying
For consciouser Eclipse-

The Province of the Saved

539

The Province of the Saved
Should be the Art-To save-
Through Skill obtained in Themselves-
The Science of the Grave

No Man can understand
But He that hath endured
The Dissolution-in Himself-
That Man-be qualified

To qualify Despair
To Those who failing new-
Mistake Defeat for Death-Each time-
Till acclimated-to-

The name-of it-is "Autumn"

656

The name-of it-is "Autumn"-
The hue-of it-is Blood-
An Artery-upon the Hill-
A Vein-along the Road-

Great Globules-in the Alleys-
And Oh, the Shower of Stain-
When Winds-upset the Basin-
And spill the Scarlet Rain-

It sprinkles Bonnets-far below-
It gathers ruddy PoolsThen-
eddies like a Rose-away-
Upon Vermilion Wheels-

The Morning after Woe

364

The Morning after Woe'
Tis frequently the Way-
Surpasses all that rose before-
For utter Jubilee-

As Nature did not care-
And piled her Blossoms on-
And further to parade a Joy
Her Victim stared upon-

The Birds declaim their Tunes-
Pronouncing every word
Like Hammers-Did they know they fell
Like Litanies of Lead-

On here and there-a creatureThey'd
modify the Glee
To fit some Crucifixal Clef-
Some Key of Calvary-

The Months have ends—the Years—a knot

423

The Months have ends—the Years—a knot—
No Power can untie
To stretch a little further
A Skein of Misery—


The Earth lays back these tired lives
In her mysterious Drawers—
Too tenderly, that any doubt
An ultimate Repose—


The manner of the Children—
Who weary of the Day—
Themself—the noisy Plaything
They cannot put away—

The Loneliness One dare not sound

777

The Loneliness One dare not sound-
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size-

The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see-
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny-

The Horror not to be surveyed-
But skirted in the Dark-
With Consciousness suspended-
And Being under Lock-

I fear me this-is Loneliness-
The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate-or seal-

The hallowing of Pain

772

The hallowing of Pain
Like hallowing of Heaven,
Obtains at a corporeal cost-
The Summit is not given

To Him who strives severe
At middle of the Hill-
But He who has achieved the TopAll-
is the price of All-

The first Day's Night had come

410

The first Day's Night had come-
And grateful that a thing
So terrible-had been endured-
I told my Soul to sing-

She said her Strings were snapt-
Her Bow-to Atoms blown-
And so to mend her-gave me work
Until another Morn-

And then-a Day as huge
As Yesterdays in pairs,
Unrolled its horror in my face-
Until it blocked my eyes-

My Brain-begun to laugh-
I mumbled-like a fool-
And tho' 'tis Years ago-that Day-
My Brain keeps giggling-still.

And Something's odd-within-
That person that I was-
And this One-do not feel the same-
Could it be Madness-this?

The Doomed—regard the Sunrise

294

The Doomed—regard the Sunrise
With different Delight—
Because—when next it burns abroad
They doubt to witness it—

The Man—to die—tomorrow—
Harks for the Meadow Bird—
Because its Music stirs the Axe
That clamors for his head—

Joyful—to whom the Sunrise
Precedes Enamored—Day—
Joyful—for whom the Meadow Bird
Has ought but Elegy!