So this thing is and must be so; For man dies, and love also dies. Though yet love's ghost moves to and fro The sea-green mirrors of your eyes, And laughs, and lies. Eyes coloured like a water-flower, And deeper than the green sea's glass; Eyes that remember one sweet hour-- In vain we swore it should not pass; In vain, alas! Ah my Félise, if love or sin, If shame or fear could hold it fast, Should we not hold it? Love wears thin, And they laugh well who laugh the last. Is it not past? The gods, the gods are stronger; time Falls down before them, all men's knees Bow, all men's prayers and sorrows climb Like incense towards them; yea, for these Are gods, Félise. Immortal are they, clothed with powers, Not to be comforted at all; Lords over all the fruitless hours; Too great to appease, too high to appal, Too far to call. For none shall move the most high gods, Who are most sad, being cruel; none Shall break or take away the rods Wherewith they scourge us, not as one That smites a son. By many a name of many a creed We have called upon them, since the sands Fell through time's hour-glass first, a seed Of life; and out of many lands Have we stretched hands. When have they heard us? who hath known Their faces, climbed unto their feet, Felt them and found them? Laugh or groan, Doth heaven remurmur and repeat Sad sounds or sweet? Do the stars answer? in the night Have ye found comfort? or by day Have ye seen gods? What hope, what light, Falls from the farthest starriest way On you that pray? Are the skies wet because we weep, Or fair because of any mirth? Cry out; they are gods; perchance they sleep; Cry; thou shalt know what prayers are worth, Thou dust and earth. O earth, thou art fair; O dust, thou art great; O laughing lips and lips that mourn, Pray, till ye feel the exceeding weight Of God's intolerable scorn, Not to be borne. Behold, there is no grief like this; The barren blossom of thy prayer, Thou shalt find out how sweet it is. O fools and blind, what seek ye there, High up in the air? Ye must have gods, the friends of men, Merciful gods, compassionate, And these shall answer you again. Will ye beat always at the gate, Ye fools of fate? Ye fools and blind; for this is sure, That all ye shall not live, but die. Lo, what thing have ye found endure? Or what thing have ye found on high Past the blind sky? The ghosts of words and dusty dreams, Old memories, faiths infirm and dead. Ye fools; for which among you deems His prayer can alter green to red Or stones to bread? Why should ye bear with hopes and fears Till all these things be drawn in one, The sound of iron-footed years, And all the oppression that is done Under the sun?