De Profundis

I’ve seen the Ocean try to kiss the Moon, Till the wild effort of his hopeless love Tortured him into madness, and the roar From his great throat was terrible to hear; And his vast bosom heaved such awful sighs As made Earth tremble to her very bones, And all her children cling to her for fear. And I have watched and seen a gentle change Come over him, till, like a child, he lay, That, disappointed, cries herself asleep, And on her sorrow angels paint a dream So happy that her face is one sweet smile. So have I seen the love-tost Ocean smile After his fury, till I almost hoped That the gay Moon would never tempt him more. But ever his heart throbs at her approach, And he awakes in all the strength of love, And frets himself to madness, watching her.

And when, as I have sometimes seen, the Sun, His mighty rival, struts before his eyes With her he loves, and warmly looks on her, Oh! how his heart is torn with jealousy! Oh! how he froths and foams and moans and raves, Till all his energy is lost in sleep, From which his love will rouse him soon again!

So did I learn the Ocean’s tale of love, Watching him, day by day, for many years, Hearing him often murmur in his sleep Such sweet, sad murmurs, that I pitied him; And, like Electra, sat beside his bed Till all the madness of his love awoke.

O Ocean! thou art like the human heart, Which craves forever what it cannot have, And, though a little it forget its strife Of longing, only wakes to long again For that which is no more accessible Than is the Moon to thee! Yet, shouldst thou lie Dull, sluggish, motionless, thy very life Would grow corrupt, and from the stagnant mass All things abominable would creep forth To soil with slimy poison the fair Earth; And that alone which moves thee to thy heart Can keep thee pure and bright and beautiful!

So, by the anguish of a hopeless love,— So, by the madness born of mental pain,— So, by the endless strife of joy and fear,— So, by all sufferings, tortures, agonies,— So, by the powers that shake it to its depths,— So, by the very loss of what it seeks,— The heart is purified, and that which seems Its death gives it a fresher, truer life.