The Echo And The Quest

Now, as the west is red, O birds! My clumsy arts you bring to naught: A victim of the curse of thought, I tell its pain in trammeling words--

Your music mocks the bitter lay! Idle as any song of mine The melody from copse or pine-- Born at the dying of the day;

But oh! the full accomplishment! Reproach unplanned but exquisite! Hark how the unpurchased throats transmit The tidings of a world content!

To you the tale is all of joy, But we from rapture ask its pang; And tho’ an angel came and sang, Our hearts would worship--and destroy.

And tho for ecstasy you sing, Our dim dissent awaits your tale, And in the song there seems to wail Another message than you bring:

Unmastered still by disbelief, You tell our doubts in twilight strain; Untouched by man’s perennial pain, You give some echo of his grief;

Or so we dream. The very wind Serves at the soul’s aeolian chords; Rulers dismayed, uncertain lords, In all we find, ourselves we find.

But you escape the nets of care. Whither at last my feet shall go I know not: from your song I know You find the truth, and find it fair.