Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/607

 As even the cobweb-flash of a misgiving, Assured and certain that if you see right Others will have to see albeit their seeing Shall irk them out of their serenity For such a time as umbrage may require. But there are many reptiles in the night That now is coming on, and they are hungry; And there's a Rembrandt to be satisfied Who never will be, howsoever much He be assured of an ascendency That has not yet a shadow's worth of sound Where Holland has its ears. And what of that? Have you the weary leisure or sick wit That breeds of its indifference a false envy That is the vermin on accomplishment? Are you inaugurating your new service With fasting for a food you would not eat? You are the servant, Rembrandt, not the master, But you are not assigned with other slaves That in their freedom are the most in fear. One of the few that are so fortunate As to be told their task and to be given A skill to do it with a tool too keen For timid safety, bow your elected head Under the stars tonight, and whip your devils Each to his nest in hell. Forget your days, And so forgive the years that may not be So many as to be more than you may need For your particular consistency In your peculiar folly. You are counting Some fewer years than forty at your heels; And they have not pursued your gait so fast As your oblivion which has beaten them, And rides now on your neck like an old man With iron shins and fingers. Let him ride