Deep, deep in league with Fate, Fate fast in league with Sorrow, And Sorrow with my state, I would that I could borrow, O Deep, a depth from thee, O Fate, thy fixèd calm, O Sorrow, what to me Thou givest not, thy balm; That I might worthier show A scorn of your controls, And let Misfortune know Iron chains make iron souls. If chain’d we could but take Contagion from the steel, And wisdom’s mantle shake Around us head to heel, And chill the eyes and rest No longer violent, The steel, still more imprest, Would banish discontent. The strongest chains are burst When we have done with care; A joy lives in the worst, A gladness in despair. So when great clouds all night Hold high debate of thunder In awful tones that fright The huddled cities under; And roar their rage and move About the breadths of space, And sudden flashes prove The madness in their face; At length, when break of day Shows heav’nly peace newborn, They muttering melt away Before the might of morn. * * * * * WISDOM’S COUNSEL I But Wisdom wearying said, ‘I know a nobler way. Let Fate with Sorrow wed And give the Deep his day; But turn thine eyes and see With some more love sincere The prisoners that with thee Are also dungeon’d here— The pale flower in the chink, The spider at the grate, The bird that comes to drink His tollage from thy plate.’ Grief, sitting sad’ning still With cold eyes inward cast, Looks round the empty will And dreary chambers vast Of thought. She cannot sit; She loathes her selfish tears; She looks once more without, And lo! worse grief appears. Her tears bechidden freeze; She watches the world’s need, And deeper sorrow sees, And that that weeps indeed. There is no misery Attired in mourning wear, Worse misery may not see, And that that goeth bare. We have no heavy cross To some one’s is not small; We weep no heavy loss But some one weeps his all; And not the grief unseen, And not the aching mind, Cries like the sorrow seen And shivering in the wind. II Half stun’d I look around And see a land of death— Dead bones that walk the ground And dead bones underneath; A race of wretches caught Between the palms of Need And rub’d to utter naught, The chaff of human seed; And all like stricken leaves, Despondent multitudes The wind of winter drives About the broken woods. The toiler tills the field, But at his bosom coil’d The blood-leach makes him yield The pence for which he toil’d,