A base thing, yet not knowing to fulfil Base functions. A high thing, yet all unmeet For work that’s high. A dweller on the earth, Yet not content to dig with other men Because of certain sudden sights and sounds (Bars of broke music; furtive, fleeting glimpse Of angel faces ’thwart the grating seen) Perceived in Heaven. Yet when I approach To catch the sound’s completeness, to absorb The faces’ full perfection, Heaven’s gate, Which then had stood ajar, sudden falls to, And I, a-shiver in the dark and cold, Scarce hear afar the mocking tones of men: “He would not dig, forsooth; but he must strive For higher fruits than what our tillage yields; Behold what comes, my brothers, of vain pride!” Why play with figures? trifle prettily With this my grief which very simply ’s said, “There is no place for me in all the world”? The world’s a rock, and I will beat no more A breast of flesh and blood against a rock.... A stride across the planks for old time’s sake. Ah, bare, small room that I have sorrowed in; Ay, and on sunny days, haply, rejoiced; We know some things together, you and I! Hold there, you rangèd row of books! In vain You beckon from your shelf. You’ve stood my friends Where all things else were foes; yet now I’ll turn My back upon you, even as the world Turns it on me. And yet--farewell, farewell! You, lofty Shakespere, with the tattered leaves And fathomless great heart, your binding’s bruised Yet did I love you less? Goethe, farewell; Farewell, triumphant smile and tragic eyes, And pitiless world-wisdom! For all men These two. And ’tis farewell with you, my friends, More dear because more near: Theokritus; Heine that stings and smiles; Prometheus’ bard; (I’ve grown too coarse for Shelley latterly:) And one wild singer of to-day, whose song Is all aflame with passionate bard’s blood Lash’d into foam by pain and the world’s wrong. At least, he has a voice to cry his pain; For him, no silent writhing in the dark, No muttering of mute lips, no straining out Of a weak throat a-choke with pent-up sound, A-throb with pent-up passion.... Ah, my sun! That’s you, then, at the window, looking in To beam farewell on one who’s loved you long And very truly. Up, you creaking thing, You squinting, cobwebbed casement! So, at last, I can drink in the sunlight. How it falls Across that endless sea of London roofs, Weaving such golden wonders on the grey, That almost, for the moment, we forget The world of woe beneath them. Underneath, For all the sunset glory, Pain is king. Yet, the sun’s there, and very sweet withal; And I’ll not grumble that it’s only sun,