To sadness and to self We should not enter in— Sadness the shadow of self And self the shadow of sin— Unless because the whole Of human life appears Clear only when the soul Is darken’d thro’ with tears. The day too full of light With light her own light mars; But in the shading night The shining host of stars. That, leaving manhood, men Should kiss the hands of grief And, loving but the wen, The wart, the wither’d leaf, Amass a hoard of husks When joy is in the corn Nor ever evening dusks Without the tints of morn, Informs with doubt if good Be, or omnipotent; Since in the brightest blood This idle discontent. Joy, jester at herself, And happiness, of woe, If self at peace with self Know not, when shall he know? So one, a prosperous man; Nightly the people fill His toast, and what he can Is only what he will. They shout; his name is wed With thunders; torches flare; Tost in a wretched bed He chews a trifling care. III One says in scorn, ‘The strife To live well keeps us well, And ’tis the unworthy life That makes the prison cell.’ And one, ‘An angel stood On sands of withering heat; The flowerless solitude Grew green beneath his feet.’ A third, ‘Many would lief Endure thy solitude As else. Ascribe thy grief To poison in the blood.’ And I, ‘O Soul, content Yet in thine exile dwell, And live up to thy bent. Not more than well is well; But take the sports divine, The largesse of the earth; Wind-drinking steeds be thine And blowsèd chase—the mirth Of those who wisely draw Their lives in nature’s vein And live in the large law, Of slaying or being slain. ‘Or learn by looking round. Lift up thine eyes. Avow The gardener of thy ground Doth worthier work than thou. From his poor cot he wends At early break of day; His pretty charges tends In his unskilful way. Much wearied with his toil He labours thro’ the hours, And pours upon the soil Refreshment for his flowers. ‘Tho’ bent with aged stoop, To him no rest is given, But the heads of those that droop He raises up to heaven. Half ready for the grave, His weakness he forgets, More scrupulous to save The breath of violets. But at the evening hour When he shall seek repose, The voice of every flower Will bless him as he goes.’ * * * * * SELF-SORROWS I These stones that idly make An idle land and lie, Fantastic forms, or break Down crumbling hills not high