Sic Vos Non Vobis

If on the thorns thy feet be pierced to-morrow, And far the fierce sands glare, Unbind thy temples! thank life for its sorrow, Its longing and despair.

With love within, what heart shall halt and wither, Athirst for rivered hills? Moaning, “Mine! mine! what hate hath led me hither Unto a sky that kills?”

Unworthy thou! if faith should sink and falter; Blind hand and blinder eye Bind the blind hope upon thy doubt’s old altar And stab it till it die.

Thou canst not say thy toil and tears have never Communed with lovely sleep! Had night before thine eyeballs--night forever To lead thee to the deep!

Ay! wouldst thou have thy self-love for a burden, A fardel bound with tears, To sweat beneath and gain at last, for guerdon, From hands of wasted years?

To find thy stars are glow-worms, feebler, thinner Than glimmers of the moon: Dead stars, and all the darkness of the inner Self’s deader plenilune.

To see at last,--beneath Death’s sterner learning, --Through sockets sealed with frost, The awful sunsets of Doom’s heavens burning God’s baffling pentecost.