Poem 81 (They that fear nothing else, of…)

They that fear nothing else, of thee afraid, Do call thee Sleep and Passing. Thou set'st free Infinite shapes of all a man may be, Yet at thy nothingness he shrinks dismayed. If thou wert not, the Poets had been dumb, And Music silent. Yea, majestic Art Had never sought and found her better part Nor by the living eyes betrayed the heart. Great prophecy were an unmeaning hum, What-is no longer holding what's-to-come.

ii

I have wept for those who on this turning earth Had lived more years than I—who were to me The aim and goal of my felicity, The dear reward of effort, crown of worth. And I have wept for babes who died at birth, Most deeply moved that I should never see The flower and fruit of all the days to be, A younger youth than mine, a merrier mirth. But never ere this day I felt the sting Of terror lest my burning tears should fall For one who felt when first I felt the spring, Heard from the wood the self-same cuckoo call, Heard the same robin in the autumn sing, Was one with me in life—in love—in all.

iii

Bid me remember, O my gracious Lord, The flattering words of love are merely breath! O not in roses wreathe the shining sword, Bid me remember, O my gracious Lord, The bitter taste of death!

Wrap not in clouds of dread for me that hour When I must leave behind this house of clay, When the grass withers and the shrunken flower! Bid me, O Lord, in that most dreadful hour, Not fall, but fly away!