Page:The Poet in the Desert.djvu/124



They have expressed themselves ; they have done their

part. Death, the infinite sea, which in its widest sweep touches

the shore of Life. Does the sunset withhold its glories Because Night advances to swallow it? Or Night stay its wonder because it will pale to a new

day? Shall Spring tear off her garlands and deny the overture

of birds Because Summer comes quickly? Or Summer lie by the brook and sigh Because presently she dies? Or Autumn, like a sour churl, refuse his fruits Because Winter has a sword at his throat? Nay, because of Winter, he urges his abundance. And tramples the grapes busily in the wine-press. He is more prodigal of gifts because soon comes the

barren silence.

Death is Life in its fullest immensity.

And shall I be rebellious because I make way for the new?

I am not the whole, but a part of the whole ;

There are stars beyond counting.

Which, with far solicitude, overhang the Night.

There are many blades of grass which nurse lowly upon

the Earth. Each is of the whole and assumes not to say, "Behold me ! I am the only one." Yet each is determined desperately to be itself, As if there were none other; Resistlessly itself, that through it The infinite Past and the infinite Future may be united.

If I be not myself remorselessly,

I have despised the wonderful Past which made me,

And betrayed the imprisoned Future

Which holds up to me imploring hands.

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