They reason that To-morrow must be wise
Because To-day was not, nor Yesterday,
As if good days were shapen of themselves,
Not of the very lifeblood of men’s souls;
Meanwhile, long-suffering, imperturbable, 760
Thou quietly complet’st thy syllogism,
And from the premise sparrow here below
Draw’st sure conclusion of the hawk above,
Pleased with the soft-billed songster, pleased no less
With the fierce beak of natures aquiline.

Thou beautiful Old Time, now hid away
In the Past’s valley of Avilion,
Haply, like Arthur, till thy wound be healed,
Then to reclaim the sword and crown again! 
Thrice beautiful to us; perchance less fair 770
To who possessed thee, as a mountain seems
To dwellers round its bases but a heap
Of barren obstacle that lairs the storm
And the avalanche’s silent bolt holds back
Leashed with a hair,—­meanwhile some far-off clown,
Hereditary delver of the plain,
Sees it an unmoved vision of repose,
Nest of the morning, and conjectures there
The dance of streams to idle shepherds’ pipes,
And fairer habitations softly hung 780
On breezy slopes, or hid in valleys cool,
For happier men.  No mortal ever dreams
That the scant isthmus he encamps upon
Between two oceans, one, the Stormy, passed,
And one, the Peaceful, yet to venture on,
Has been that future whereto prophets yearned
For the fulfilment of Earth’s cheated hope,
Shall be that past which nerveless poets moan
As the lost opportunity of song.

O Power, more near my life than life itself 790
(Or what seems life to us in sense immured),
Even as the roots, shut in the darksome earth,
Share in the tree-top’s joyance, and conceive
Of sunshine and wide air and winged things
By sympathy of nature, so do I
Have evidence of Thee so far above,
Yet in and of me!  Rather Thou the root
Invisibly sustaining, hid in light,
Not darkness, or in darkness made by us. 
If sometimes I must hear good men debate 800
Of other witness of Thyself than Thou,
As if there needed any help of ours
To nurse Thy flickering life, that else must cease,
Blown out, as ’twere a candle, by men’s breath,
My soul shall not be taken in their snare,
To change her inward surety for their doubt
Muffled from sight in formal robes of proof: 
While she can only feel herself through Thee,
I fear not Thy withdrawal; more I fear,
Seeing, to know Thee not, hoodwinked with dreams 810
Of signs and wonders, while, unnoticed, Thou,
Walking Thy garden still, commun’st with men,
Missed in the commonplace of miracle.

THREE MEMORIAL POEMS

                      ’Coscienza fusca
  O della propria o dell’ altrui vergogna
  Pur sentira la tua parola brusca.’