Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/119

 is one battle-field whereon we fall Triumphant and unconquered; but, alas! We are too fleshly fearful of ourselves To fight there till our days are whirled and blurred By sorrow, and the ministering wheels Of anguish take us eastward, where the clouds Of human gloom are lost against the gleam That shines on Thought's impenetrable mail. we shall hear no more the cradle-songs Of ages when the timeless hymns of Love Defeat them and outsound them we shall know The rapture of that large release which all Right science comprehends ; and we shall read, With unoppressed and unoffended eyes, That record of All-Soul whereon God writes In everlasting runes the truth of Him. guerdon of new childhood is repose:— Once he has read the primer of right thought, A man may claim between two smithy strokes Beatitude enough to realize God's parallel completeness in the vague And incommensurable excellence That equitably uncreates itself And makes a whirlwind of the Universe. is no loneliness:—no matter where We go, nor whence we come, nor what good friends