Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/168

 Made crashing an ideal. It is the flesh That ails us, for the spirit knows no qualm, No failure, no down-falling: so climb high, And having set your steps regard not much The downward laughter clinging at your feet, Nor overmuch the warning; only know, As well as you know dawn from lantern-light, That far above you, for you, and within you, And always yours, the truth. Take on yourself But your sincerity, and you take on Good promise for all climbing: fly for truth, And hell shall have no storm to crush your flight, No laughter to vex down your loyalty. "I think you may be smiling at me now And if I make you smile, so much the better; For I would have you know that I rejoice Always to see the thing that I would see The righteous thing, the wise thing. I rejoice Always to think that any thought of mine, Or any word or any deed of mine, May grant sufficient of what fortifies Good feeling and the courage of calm joy To make the joke worth while. Contrariwise, When I review some faces I have known— Sad faces, hungry faces and reflect On thoughts I might have moulded, human words I might have said, straightway it saddens me To feel perforce that had I not been mute And actionless, I might have made them bright Somehow, though only for the moment. Yes, Howbeit I may confess the vanities, It saddens me; and sadness, of all things Miscounted wisdom, and the most of all