Page:Poems and ballads (IA poemsballads00swinrich).pdf/189

 Thou art chief of us, and lord; Thy song is as a sword Keen-edged and scented in the blade from flowers; Thou art lord and king; but we Lift younger eyes, and see Less of high hope, less light on wandering hours; Hours that have borne men down so long, Seen the right fail, and watched uplift the wrong.

But thine imperial soul, As years and ruins roll To the same end, and all things and all dreams With the same wreck and roar Drift on the dim same shore, Still in the bitter foam and brackish streams Tracks the fresh water-spring to be And sudden sweeter fountains in the sea.

As once the high God bound With many a rivet round Man’s saviour, and with iron nailed him through, At the wild end of things, Where even his own bird’s wings Flagged, whence the sea shone like a drop of dew, From Caucasus beheld below Past fathoms of unfathomable snow;

So the strong God, the chance Central of circumstance,