Classic Poem

The Stranger ( alone ).

I S there in the deed-world a deed, a way,
Worth doing or worth following? Is there aught
That can call out from spirit's secret deeps
The hopes, the longings, that lie sleeping there,
Until the hour, the time, ordained of God,
Touches them with light point of spear or dart,
And they leap forth in light? I cannot deem so.
The largest deeds of men are slender waves
Upon the sea's unmeasured stretch; a king
Sits high enthroned, and dim forgetfulness
Clothes him as with a robe; great love of men
Would set the crooked straight, and stem the stream
That flows to gulfs of death and shame, and turn
Its speed to where the happy fields are green,
But age on age the self-same tasks survive,
The work is still to do. So large man's soul,
That all the outer world is but a star
Upon its sky, and from its own deep might
Star after star appears — white lustrous births
From its unresting motions. All things are small,
All deeds but limited by things or deeds;
The sense of utter power, and might unswerved
From its clear end, resides not in the realm
Where souls appulse 'gainst souls, and the lame act
Halts far behind the wish; in thought alone
Is perfect freedom; even the seeming laws
Wherein all thought is bound, that wizard keen
Unmakes, and from the wide upheaval rears
Such domes as suit its myriad caprice.
The bitter code of good and ill, the feud
Wherein all pleasure dies, the rigorous choice
Compelling men to one strait way, — wherefore
Should the unconquered soul submit its head
To wear the yoke? In sooth there are two worlds;
I care not for that slavish bounded realm
Where there is work to do, and men meet men,
And strongest cords of relative despair
Encircle you; I see no cause to act;
I cast mine eyes upon the course of years
Even to the pale beginning. I see the world
Much like itself, bent double on its deeds,
And seeking the impossible, — to make
The world of work reflect the world of thought.
It is in vain, a futile opposition
To the essential framework of the world;
There are two worlds, a contrast sharp and dire,
And reconcilement cannot be. I, therefore,
Leave effort proved forerunner of defeat,
And with my thought am satisfied. I see
At will all splendor take on form and hue,
A pageantry of dreams pass through my soul,
Make joy for me past what the things can give;
For fantasy is more than all the world.
It is with thought that I am fallen in love;
I hate the sickly kissings, clasping hands,
The bitter bonds of love that lures us, love
As in the world misnamed, say, rather, lust
Or some such strain which is for beasts, not men.
But lo! I penetrate all mysteries,
I hold the keys, I watch how in my thought
Idea shapes idea, and the sphere
Rounds itself in the mighty thought of God.
I ponder the dark riddles of the sages,
I muse with the sweet poets, I forsake
The chill embrace of earth; — and this is best.
I shall withdraw me more and more, and reach
The peace which mystic faith has dreamed on, peace
Past understanding save to those strong souls
Who can renounce whatso the outer brings,
And live alone that hid internal life,
Which is the all in all, both each and all,
Oneness eterne o'erruling vast diverse,
Intellect pure in pure activity.