Yes, life! though it seems half a death, When the flowers of the glen Bend over, with color and breath, Till we tremble again; Till we shudder with exquisite pain Their beauty to see, While our dumb hope, through fibre and vein, Climbs up to be free. No blossom -- scarce leaf -- on the ground, Vague fruitage we bear, -- Point upward, reach fingers around, In a tender despair. And we pencil rare patterns of grace Men's footsteps about: A charm in our wilderness-place They find us, no doubt. Yet why must this possible more Forever be less? The unattained flower in the spore Hints a human distress. We fern-folk with grave whispers crowd The solemn wood-gloom, Or weave over clods our green cloud Of nebulous bloom. To fashion our life as a flower, In weird curves we reach, -- O man, with your beautiful power Of presence and speech! Yet the heart of the human must grope Through its nobler despair; For it can but look upward, and hope All perfection to share. And to dream of the sweetness we miss Is not wholly in vain; For the soul can be glad in a bliss It may never attain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...PLAINT OF THE DISGUSTED BRITON IN THE STATES by GEORGE SANTAYANA IDYLL 1. LAMENT FOR ADONIS by BION TO A FAT LADY SEEN FROM THE TRAIN by FRANCES CROFTS DARWIN CORNFORD ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER by JOHN KEATS IN AN ATELIER by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH VILLAGE GREEN by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN CALVARY-TALK by GORDON BOTTOMLEY ASOLANDO: WHICH? by ROBERT BROWNING LINES WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER PARTING FROM A LADY by SAMUEL EGERTON BRYDGES |