THE MAN WHO FOUND TRUTH
Whether the world was still consumed with strife
He knew not, nor if Death still followed Life,
Nor what of loss or gain there was, nor birth,
What change or revolution held the earth.
Nor whether Love, with subtle songs and deep,
Yet lost men's souls, or if seduced by sleep
Love lay and yielded up his crown to Fame.
Only he knew that through the forest came
Long murmurs and sweet sounds of living things—
The babbling voice of thicket-hidden springs,
Drowsing of flies, winds musical and dim,
Where, full of sighs, the branches waved o'er him.
And where the lithe and glowing bracken spread
He knew the intervening sunlight shed
A stream of shrouded gold which flowed between
The cool transparency of lucid green—
And evermore upon his sleeping eyes
Flashed the bright wings of morning as they rise
And make an opal of the waking skies.
And when the drowsy day, not wholly gone,
With clouds upon her forehead, lingers on
To welcome twilight with untroubled hands
And quiet eyes, wherein a presence stands
Of thought grown portion of the infinite—
He saw upon her breast the parting light
Flash like a jewel, and when twilight grew
A thing declared he heard the winds pursue
With moaning cries sad clouds of brooding gloom.
And how through dripping leaves and waste perfume
Of torn lost flowers the beating raindrops fall
In measured cadence wild and musical,
And the sky heeds no more the earth's distress,
But more than all he felt the tenderness
Of twining weeds across his hands and feet—
Convolvulus, which panting still to meet
The Dryad's heart lays bare his own sad love
In heart-shaped foliage, and where perfumes move
Evident almost, honeysuckle wreaths—
And nightshade, which from Proserpine receives
A deadly gift of slumber—passionate
Wild branching ivy and, insatiate
Still after Love, the twining clematis—
And on his ears fell ancient melodies,
Which Pan from earliest days has taught the birds—
A wild confusion of indefinite words,
Echoes, for ever throbbing a reply,
Till all his senses were o'erwhelmed thereby.
He knew not, nor if Death still followed Life,
Nor what of loss or gain there was, nor birth,
What change or revolution held the earth.
Nor whether Love, with subtle songs and deep,
Yet lost men's souls, or if seduced by sleep
Love lay and yielded up his crown to Fame.
Only he knew that through the forest came
Long murmurs and sweet sounds of living things—
The babbling voice of thicket-hidden springs,
Drowsing of flies, winds musical and dim,
Where, full of sighs, the branches waved o'er him.
And where the lithe and glowing bracken spread
He knew the intervening sunlight shed
A stream of shrouded gold which flowed between
The cool transparency of lucid green—
And evermore upon his sleeping eyes
Flashed the bright wings of morning as they rise
And make an opal of the waking skies.
And when the drowsy day, not wholly gone,
With clouds upon her forehead, lingers on
To welcome twilight with untroubled hands
And quiet eyes, wherein a presence stands
Of thought grown portion of the infinite—
He saw upon her breast the parting light
Flash like a jewel, and when twilight grew
A thing declared he heard the winds pursue
With moaning cries sad clouds of brooding gloom.
And how through dripping leaves and waste perfume
Of torn lost flowers the beating raindrops fall
In measured cadence wild and musical,
And the sky heeds no more the earth's distress,
But more than all he felt the tenderness
Of twining weeds across his hands and feet—
Convolvulus, which panting still to meet
The Dryad's heart lays bare his own sad love
In heart-shaped foliage, and where perfumes move
Evident almost, honeysuckle wreaths—
And nightshade, which from Proserpine receives
A deadly gift of slumber—passionate
Wild branching ivy and, insatiate
Still after Love, the twining clematis—
And on his ears fell ancient melodies,
Which Pan from earliest days has taught the birds—
A wild confusion of indefinite words,
Echoes, for ever throbbing a reply,
Till all his senses were o'erwhelmed thereby.
For he had wandered deaf with the world's cry,
Searching that ancient, undiscovered spell
Mankind has sought from times unspeakable—
That one strong word the gods knew when they wrought
All things from chaos with a mighty thought
Omnipotent, and men have named it Truth,
And it has sapped the ardour of their youth,
And all their days, long filled with grievous pain,
And none has heard it yet, although the stain
Of blood, which torn and questing hearts have shed
Has turned the earth's green fields to bitter red.
And he with yearning soul from land to land
Wandered, and held earth's wisdom in his hand,
And cried, 'Lo, I am wise!' and slept and saw
The shadow of an undiscovered law
Was all his wisdom, and the ancient years
Drew nigh with sacred mirth and pregnant tears,
And eloquence of dim departed gods;
And showed how earth's most lost and trodden sods
Concealed some human world-wide heritage—
Some strange, deep memory of a former age.
Until with bended knees and eyes sublime
With wonder and new joy, he prayed to Time,
And found in Time no more a god at all,
But a poor jester at Life's festival—
And Life himself a misty king of shade—
And thus incontinent his spirit strayed
Ever from vain desire to vain desire
Till Life and Death became one raging fire
And sank to chaos, and above him leapt
Gaunt forms and all in vast confusion swept
Detesting light, then fearfully he cried:
'There is no truth—no truth, the gods have lied
To man in making man,' but sudden sleep
Soothed his sad fever, and where branches sweep
Careless above a silent forest glade
He lay and heard no more man's tired feet climb
By slow degrees the burning steps of Time—
But slept, and saw in sleep the whole world fade.
And like the sea's monotonous slow tune,
Heard amongst dreams some burning afternoon,
Even as a broken wave the old life spent
Its strength and all its dull bewilderment
On the long wreckage of some hidden shore,
Whilst to his soul a voice spoke evermore:
'The Heavens are yours, the stars and all the earth,
For you and they were of the selfsame birth
And all the suns and seas are one with you.
The little starving crowns that men pursue
Are wrought outside the boundaries of life—
What need, what need, what need is there for strife?
Man's spirit sprang from the same harmony,
The same perfection as the sky and sea—
What need, what need, what need is there for strife,
Seeing the gods are quiet, and their hands
Weave from their quiet thoughts the cool green lands
And soft continuous flow of life and death?
Cease, cease a little while from fevered breath
And fear which of confusion travaileth,
And use the earth's pale beauty as a glass
Through which you may perceive the great gods pass
Seeing the gods are wholly beautiful.'
This thing alone he knew, that through the lull
Of ceasing strife all beauty came to him,
And haunted his hushed spirit, and the dim
Sweet woodland rapture mingled with his blood—
And evermore, as some reposeful flood
Mirrors the passing clouds and bending trees,
So his receptive soul reflected full
All Nature's manifest embroideries—
And growing perfected and beautiful
He saw, through Beauty's pale and mystic glass,
The quiet gods and all their wonders pass,
And where the drowsy notes harmonious fall
Of Life's still songs subdued and musical
He heard within the sound his own soul's call.
Searching that ancient, undiscovered spell
Mankind has sought from times unspeakable—
That one strong word the gods knew when they wrought
All things from chaos with a mighty thought
Omnipotent, and men have named it Truth,
And it has sapped the ardour of their youth,
And all their days, long filled with grievous pain,
And none has heard it yet, although the stain
Of blood, which torn and questing hearts have shed
Has turned the earth's green fields to bitter red.
And he with yearning soul from land to land
Wandered, and held earth's wisdom in his hand,
And cried, 'Lo, I am wise!' and slept and saw
The shadow of an undiscovered law
Was all his wisdom, and the ancient years
Drew nigh with sacred mirth and pregnant tears,
And eloquence of dim departed gods;
And showed how earth's most lost and trodden sods
Concealed some human world-wide heritage—
Some strange, deep memory of a former age.
Until with bended knees and eyes sublime
With wonder and new joy, he prayed to Time,
And found in Time no more a god at all,
But a poor jester at Life's festival—
And Life himself a misty king of shade—
And thus incontinent his spirit strayed
Ever from vain desire to vain desire
Till Life and Death became one raging fire
And sank to chaos, and above him leapt
Gaunt forms and all in vast confusion swept
Detesting light, then fearfully he cried:
'There is no truth—no truth, the gods have lied
To man in making man,' but sudden sleep
Soothed his sad fever, and where branches sweep
Careless above a silent forest glade
He lay and heard no more man's tired feet climb
By slow degrees the burning steps of Time—
But slept, and saw in sleep the whole world fade.
And like the sea's monotonous slow tune,
Heard amongst dreams some burning afternoon,
Even as a broken wave the old life spent
Its strength and all its dull bewilderment
On the long wreckage of some hidden shore,
Whilst to his soul a voice spoke evermore:
'The Heavens are yours, the stars and all the earth,
For you and they were of the selfsame birth
And all the suns and seas are one with you.
The little starving crowns that men pursue
Are wrought outside the boundaries of life—
What need, what need, what need is there for strife?
Man's spirit sprang from the same harmony,
The same perfection as the sky and sea—
What need, what need, what need is there for strife,
Seeing the gods are quiet, and their hands
Weave from their quiet thoughts the cool green lands
And soft continuous flow of life and death?
Cease, cease a little while from fevered breath
And fear which of confusion travaileth,
And use the earth's pale beauty as a glass
Through which you may perceive the great gods pass
Seeing the gods are wholly beautiful.'
This thing alone he knew, that through the lull
Of ceasing strife all beauty came to him,
And haunted his hushed spirit, and the dim
Sweet woodland rapture mingled with his blood—
And evermore, as some reposeful flood
Mirrors the passing clouds and bending trees,
So his receptive soul reflected full
All Nature's manifest embroideries—
And growing perfected and beautiful
He saw, through Beauty's pale and mystic glass,
The quiet gods and all their wonders pass,
And where the drowsy notes harmonious fall
Of Life's still songs subdued and musical
He heard within the sound his own soul's call.