He cannot win, Nor earn, nor see, nor hear, nor comprehend, With all the watch, tender, impetuous, That wastes him, this, whereof no less he feels Infinite things; but yet the night is full Of air-beats and of heart-beats for her sake. Eve the aspirer, give her what she wants, Or wherefore was he born? O he was born To wish--then turn away:--to wish again And half forget his wish for earthlier joy; He draws the net to land that brings red gold; His dreams among the meshes tangled lie, And learning hath him at her feet;--and love, The sea-born creature fresh from her sea foam, Touches the ruddiest veins in his young heart, Makes it to sob in him and sigh in him, Restless, repelled, dying, alive and keen, Fainting away for the remorseless ALL Gone by, gone up, or sweetly gone before, But never in his arms. Then pity comes, Knocks at his breast, it may be, and comes in, Makes a wide wound that haply will not heal, But bleeds for poverty, and crime, and pain, Till for the dear kin's sake he grandly dares Or wastes him, with a wise improvidence; But who can stir the weighty world; or who Can drink a sea of tears? O love, and life, O world, and can it be that this is all? Leave him to tread expectance underfoot; Let him alone to tame down his great hope Before it breaks his heart: "Give me my share That I foresaw, my place, my draught of life. This that I bear, what is it?--me no less It binds, I cannot disenslave my soul." There is but halting for the wearied foot. The better way is hidden; faith hath failed-- One stronger far than reason mastered her. It is not reason makes faith hard, but life. The husks of his dead creed, downtrod and dry, Are powerless now as some dishonoured spell, Some aged Pythia in her priestly clothes, Some widow'd witch divining by the dead. Or if he keep one shrine undesecrate And go to it from time to time with tears, What lies there? A dead Christ enswathed and cold, A Christ that did not rise. The linen cloth Is wrapped about His head, He lies embalmed With myrrh and spices in His sepulchre, The love of God that daily dies;--to them That trust it the One Life, the all that lives. O mother Eve, who wert beguiled of old, Thy blood is in thy children, thou art yet Their fate and copy; with thy milk they drew The immortal want of morning; but thy day Dawned and was over, and thy children know Contentment never, nor continuance long. For even thus it is with them: the day Waxeth, to wane anon, and a long night Leaves the dark heart unsatisfied with stars. A soul in want and restless and bereft To whom all life hath lied, shall it too lie? Saying, "I yield Thee thanks, most mighty God, Thou hast been pleased to make me thus and thus. I do submit me to Thy sovereign will That I full oft should hunger and not have, And vainly yearn after the perfect good, Gladness and peace"?