The pleasure I remember, it is past; The pain I feel is passing, passing by; Thus all the world is passing, and thus I: All things that cannot last Have grown familiar, and are born to die. And being familiar, have so long been borne That habit trains us not to break but bend: Mourning grows natural to us who mourn In foresight of an end, But that which ends not who shall brave or mend? Surely the ripe fruits tremble on their bough, They cling and linger trembling till they drop: I, trembling, cling to dying life; for how Face the perpetual Now? Birthless and deathless, void of start or stop, Void of repentance, void of hope and fear, Of possibility, alternative, Of all that ever made us bear to live From night to morning here, Of promise even which has no gift to give. The wood, and every creature of the wood, Seemed mourning with me in an undertone; Soft scattered chirpings and a windy moan, Trees rustling where they stood And shivered, showed compassion for my mood. Rage to despair; and now despair had turned Back to self-pity and mere weariness, With yearnings like a smouldering fire that burned, And might grow more or less, And might die out or wax to white excess. Without, within me, music seemed to be; Something not music, yet most musical, Silence and sound in heavenly harmony; At length a pattering fall Of feet, a bell, and bleatings, broke through all. Then I looked up. The wood lay in a glow From golden sunset and from ruddy sky; The sun had stooped to earth though once so high; Had stooped to earth, in slow Warm dying loveliness brought near and low. Each water-drop made answer to the light, Lit up a spark and showed the sun his face; Soft purple shadows paved the grassy space And crept from height to height, From height to loftier height crept up apace. While opposite the sun a gazing moon Put on his glory for her coronet, Kindling her luminous coldness to its noon, As his great splendor set; One only star made up her train as yet. Each twig was tipped with gold, each leaf was edged And veined with gold from the gold-flooded west; Each mother-bird, and mate-bird, and unfledged Nestling, and curious nest, Displayed a gilded moss or beak or breast. And filing peacefully between the trees, Having the moon behind them, and the sun Full in their meek mild faces, walked at ease A homeward flock, at peace With one another and with every one. A patriarchal ram with tinkling bell Led all his kin; sometimes one browsing sheep Hung back a moment, or one lamb would leap And frolic in a dell; Yet still they kept together, journeying well,