Rime

O scholar grey, with quiet eyes, Reading the charactered pages, bright With one tall candle's flickering light, In a turret chamber under the skies; O scholar, learned in gramarye, Have you seen the manifold things I see?

Have you seen the forms of traced towers Whence clamorous voices challenge the hours: Gaunt tree-branches, pitchy black Against the long, wind-driven wrack Of scurrying, shuddering clouds, that race Ever across the pale moon's face?

Have you heard the tramp of hurrying feet. There beneath, in the shadowy street, Have you heard sharp cries, and seen the flame Of silvery steel, in a perilous game, A perilous game for men to play, Hid from the searching eyes of day?

Have you heard the great awakening breath, Like trump that summons the saints from death, Of the wild, majestical wind, which blows Loud and splendid, that each man knows Far, O far away is the sea, Breaking, murmuring, stark and free?

All these things I hear and see, I, a scholar of gramarye: All are writ in the ancient books Clear, exactly, and he that looks Finds the night and the changing sea, The years gone by, and the years to be: (He that searches, with tireless eyes In a turret-chamber under the skies) Passion and joy, and sorrow and laughter, Life and death, and the things thereafter.