Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/312

 Are told in slow defeats and agonies, The guiding of a nameless light that once Had made him see too much and has by now Eevealed in death, to the undying child Of Lancelot, the Grail. For this pure light Has many rays to throw, for many men To follow; and the wise are not all pure, Nor are the pure all wise who follow it. There are more rays than men. But let the man Who saw too much, and was to drive himself From paradise, play too lightly or too long Among the moths and flowers, he finds at last There is a dim way out; and he shall grope Where pleasant shadows lead him to the plain, That has no shadow save his own behind him. And there, with no complaint, nor much regret, Shall he plod on, with death between him now And the far light that guides him, till he falls And has an empty thought of empty rest; Then Fate will put a mattock in his hands And lash him while he digs himself the grave That is to be the pallet and the shroud Of his poor blundering bones. The man who saw Too much must have an eye to see at last Where Fate has marked the clay; and he shall delve, Although his hand may slacken, and his knees May rock without a method as he toils; For there's a delving that is to be done If not for God, for man. I see the light, But I shall fall before I come to it; For I am old. I was young yesterday. Time's hand that I have held away so long Grips hard now on my shoulder. Time has won. Tomorrow I shall say to Vivian