Classic Poem

I

I THINK the stars do nod at me,
But not when people are about,
For they regard me curiously
Whenever I go out.

I may have been a star one day,
One of the rebel host that fell,
And they are nodding down to say,
" Come back to us from hell. "

Perhaps they shout to one another
" There he is! " or, " That is he! "
And tell it to some other mother
Than the one that walloped me.


II

Brothers! what is it ye mean?
What is it ye try to say?
That so earnestly ye lean
From the spirit to the clay.

There are weary gulfs between
Here and sunny Paradise,
Brothers! what is it ye mean
That ye search with burning eyes

Down for me whose fire is clogged,
Clamped in sullen earthy mould,
Battened down and fogged and bogged
Where the clay is seven-fold?


III

If ye mean revolt, if ye
Raise the standard, do not seek
Help or heartening from me,
I am very, very weak;

My wings are clipped: the crown of gold
Would not fit me now, my rage
Is as futile as the scold
Of a linnet in a cage.

Do ye look to me for aid,
O, my brothers far away?
I whom god and star betrayed
When ye stamped me into clay!

O, my dears! I'm nodding, too,
Hard as ever I can try,
Up and up and up to you,
Where you nod upon the sky.