Page:The poems of George Eliot (Crowell, 1884).djvu/419

 Bodies and minds all perfect, limbs well-turned,

And talk quite free from aught erroneous.

Thus far Elias in his seer's mantle:

But at this climax in his prophecy

My sinking spirits, fearing to be swamped,

Urge me to speak. "High prospects these, my friend,

Setting the weak carnivorous brain astretch;

We will resume the thread another day."

"To-morrow," cries Elias, "at this hour?"

"No, not to-morrow—I shall have a cold—

At least I feel some soreness—this endemic—

Good-by."

No tears are sadder than the smile

With which I quit Elias. Bitterly

I feel that every change upon this earth

Is bought with sacrifice. My yearnings fail

To reach that high apocalyptic mount

Which shows in bird's-eye view a perfect world,

Or enter warmly into other joys

Than those of faulty, struggling human kind.

That strain upon my soul's too feeble wing

Ends in ignoble floundering: I fall

Into short-sighted pity for the men

Who living in those perfect future times

Will not know half the dear imperfect things

That move my smiles and tears—will never know

The fine old incongruities that raise

My friendly laugh; the innocent conceits

That like a needless eyeglass or black patch

Give those who wear them harmless happiness;

The twists and cracks in our poor earthenware,

That touch me to more conscious fellowship

(I am not myself the finest Parian)