To the True Romance
Thy face is far from this our war,Our call and counter-cry,I shall not find Thee quick and kind,Nor know Thee till I die:Enough for me in dreams to seeAnd touch Thy garments' hem:Thy feet have trod so near to GodI may not follow them.
Through wantonness if men professThey weary of Thy parts,E'en let them die at blasphemyAnd perish with their arts;But we that love, but we that proveThine excellence august,While we adore discover moreThee perfect, wise, and just.
Since spoken word Man's Spirit stirredBeyond his belly-need,What is is Thine of fair designIn thought and craft and deed;Each stroke aright of toil and fight,That was and that shall be,And hope too high, wherefore we die,Has birth and worth in Thee.
Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in feeTo gild his dross thereby,And knowledge sure that he endureA child until he die—For to make plain that man's disdainIs but new Beauty's birth—For to possess, in loneliness,The joy of all the earth.
As Thou didst teach all lovers speech,And Life all mystery,So shalt Thou rule by every schoolTill love and longing die,Who wast or yet the lights were set,A whisper in the Void,Who shalt be sung through planets youngWhen this is clean destroyed.
Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,Across the pressing dark,The children wise of outer skiesLook hitherward and markA light that shifts, a glare that drifts,Rekindling thus and thus,Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borneStrange tales to them of us.
Time hath no tide but must abideThe servant of Thy will;Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhymeThe ranging stars stand still—Regent of spheres that lock our fearsOur hopes invisible,Oh 'twas certes at Thy decreesWe fashioned Heaven and Hell!
Pure Wisdom hath no certain pathThat lacks thy morning-eyne,And captains bold by Thee controlledMost like to Gods design;Thou art the Voice to kingly boysTo lift them through the fight,And Comfortress of Unsuccess,To give the dead good-night—
A veil to draw 'twixt God His LawAnd Man's infirmity,A shadow kind to dumb and blindThe shambles where we die;A sum to trick th' arithmeticToo base of leaguing odds,The spur of trust, the curb of lust,Thou handmaid of the Gods!
Oh Charity, all patientlyAbiding wrack and scaith!Oh Faith, that meets ten thousand cheatsYet drops no jot of faith!Devil and brute Thou dost transmuteTo higher, lordlier show,Who art in sooth that lovely TruthThe careless angels know!
Thy face is far from this our war,Our call and counter-cry,I may not find Thee quick and kind,Nor meet Thee till I die.
Yet may I look with heart unshookOn blow brought home or missed—Yet may I hear with equal earThe clarions down the list;Yet set my lance above mischanceAnd ride the barriere—Oh, hit or miss, how little 'tis,My Lady is not there!
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