Is it fancy also, 4. That the light which falls so Faintly upon the stony street below me as I write, Near tall mountains passes Thro' churchyard weeds and grasses, Barely a mower's mile away from that small bridge, tonight? And, where you are lying, Grass and flowers above you Is mingled with your sleeping face, as calm as the hearts that love you? 5. Poet gentle-hearted, Are you then departed, And have you ceased to dream the dream we loved of old so well? Has the deeply-cherish'd Aspiration perish'd, And are you happy, David, in that heaven where you dwell? Is your young soul enswathed, at last, in the singing robes you fought for? 6. In some heaven star-lighted, Are you now united Unto the poet-spirits that you loved, of English race? Is Chatterton still dreaming? And, to give it stately seeming, Has the music of his last strong song passed into Keats's face ? Is Wordsworth there? and Spenser ? Beyond the grave's black portals, Can the grand eye of Milton see the glory he sang to mortals? 7. You at least could teach me, Could your low voice reach me, Where I sit and copy out for men my soul's strange speech, Whether it be bootless, Profitless, and fruitless,— The weary aching upward strife to heights we cannot reach, The fame we seek in sorrow, The agony we forego not, The haunting singing sense that makes us climbwhither we know not. 8. Must it last for ever, The passionate endeavour, Ay, have you, there in heaven, hearts to throb and Render'd white as snow now, Do fresher glory-heights arise, and beckon higher higher? Are you dreaming, dreaming, Is your soul still roaming, Still gazing upward as we gazed, of old in the autumn gloaming? 9. Lo, the book I hold here, In the city cold here! I hold it with a gentle hand and love it as I may; Lo, the weary moments! Lo, the icy comments! And lo, pale Fortune's knife of gold swift-lifted up to slay! Has the strife no ending? Has the song no meaning? Linger I, idle as of old, while men are reaping or gleaning? 10. Upward my face I turn to you, I long for you, I yearn to you, The pallid moonlight trances me to utt'rance wild and weak; It is not that I mourn you, To mourn you were to scorn you, For you are one step nearer to the beauty singers seek. But I want, and cannot see you, I seek and cannot find you, And, see! I touch the book of songs you tenderly left behind you! 11. Ay me! I bend above it, With tearful eyes, and love it, With gentle hand I touch the leaves, but cannot find you there! Mine eyes are haunted only By that gloaming sweetly lonely, The shadows on the mossy bridge, the glamour in the air! I touch the leaves, and only See the glory they retain not— The moon that is a lamp to Hope, who glorifies what we gain not! 12. The aching and the yearning, The hollow undiscerning, |