And amongst us one, Who most has sufferd, takes dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne.
Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe, Returning home on summer-nights, have met Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab-lock-hithe, Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, As the punts rope chops round.
The day in his hotness, The strife with the palm; The night in her silence, The stars in their calm.
Is it so small a thing To have enjoyd the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done; To have advancd true friends, and beat down baffling foes?
So, loath to suffer mute. We, peopling the void air, Make Gods to whom to impute The ills we ought to bear.
Nature, with equal mind, Sees all her sons at play Sees man control the wind, The wind sweep man away.
We do not what we ought, What we ought not, we do, And lean upon the thought That chance will bring us through.
Thou hast no right to bliss.
The sophist sneers: Fool, take Thy pleasure, right or wrong! The pious wail: Forsake A world these sophists throng! Be neither saint nor sophist-led, but be a man.
Hither and thither spins The wind-borne mirroring soul, A thousand glimpses wins, And never sees a whole.
Time may restore us in his course Goethes sage mind and Byrons force; But where will Europes latter hour Again find Wordsworths healing power?
Wordsworth has gone from us and ye, Ah, may ye feel his voice as we! He too upon a wintry clime Had fallen on this iron time Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
Physician of the Iron Age, Goethe has done his pilgrimage. He took the suffering human race, He read each wound, each weakness clear And struck his finger on the place, And said Thou ailest here, and here.
Yet they, believe me, who await No gifts from Chance, have conquerd Fate.
The World in which we live and move Outlasts aversion, outlasts love: Outlasts each effort, interest, hope, Remorse, grief, joy.