Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/186

 That stung the sense like wine, Or fell more soft than dew or snow by night, Or wailed as in some flooded cave Sobs the strong broken spirit of a wave.

But we, our master, we Whose hearts, uplift to thee, Ache with the pulse of thy remembered song, We ask not nor await From the clenched hands of fate, As thou, remission of the world’s old wrong; Respite we ask not, nor release; Freedom a man may have, he shall not peace.

Though thy most fiery hope Storm heaven, to set wide ope The all-sought-for gate whence God or Chance debars All feet of men, all eyes— The old night resumes her skies, Her hollow hiding-place of clouds and stars, Where nought save these is sure in sight; And, paven with death, our days are roofed with night.

One thing we can; to be Awhile, as men may, free; But not by hope or pleasure the most stern Goddess, most awful-eyed, Sits, but on either side Sit sorrow and the wrath of hearts that burn,