The eye wanders, faith is failing:
Oh, loose hands, and let it be!
Proudly, like a king bewailing,
Oh, let fall one tear, and set us free!
All true speech and large avowal
Which the jealous soul concedes;
All man's heart which brooks bestowal,
All frank faith which passion breeds,—
These we had, and we gave truly;
Doubt not, what we had, we gave!
False we were not, nor unruly;
Lodgers in the forest and the cave.
Long we wandered with you, feeding
Our rapt souls on your replies,
In a wistful silence reading
All the meaning of your eyes.
By moss-bordered statues sitting,
By well-heads, in summer days.
But we turn, our eyes are flitting—
See, the white east, and the morning-rays!
And you too, O worshipped Graces,
Sylvan gods of this fair shade!
Is there doubt on divine faces?
Are the blessed gods dismayed?
Can men worship the wan features,
The sunk eyes, the wailing tone,
Of unsphered, discrowned creatures,
Souls as little godlike as their own?
Come, loose hands! The wingèd fleetness
Of immortal feet is gone;
And your scents have shed their sweetness.
And your flowers are overblown.
