Of all that is—disrealmed and headlong cast,
And, prone in whirling fate and unplumbed night,
Fall with a world unhinged? because His will,
Who works in awful secrecy of change,
Conceives, creates, but knows not to preserve?
The Hand that fused the obscure elements
And cast the mould of Nature—does it tire?
When hath He called thy shoulder to the wheel?
When hath He sought thy door? or sued to thee
For thy alliance? strength or counsel craved?
O insolent! thinking to help thy God!"
He sang no more, but silent was his heart;
Nor music knew, save, as one hears in sleep
The wild wind sighing in an outer world,
He heard around him earth's old cradle-song
Of wood and wave, life's grieving undertones;
Or the deep chord of color, or lyric form,
Motionless charm, with sudden piercing pain
Made his blood wild; and if at times there woke
Rapture of heart and ecstasy of soul,
They were the spirit's intense agony;
And earth more beautiful, and love more sweet,
Were unto him increase of loneliness
The long, long years. O, wherefore should he sing!
