Not sometimes, but to him that heeds the whole And in the Ample reads his personal page, Laboring to reconcile, content, assuage The vexed conditions of his heritage, Forever waits an angel at the goal. And ills seem but as food for spirits sage, And grief becomes a dark apparelage, The weed and wearing of the sacred soul. Might I but count, but here, one watchlight spark! But vain, O vain this turning for the light, Vain as a groping hand to rend the dark-- I call, entangled in the night, a night Of wind and voices, but the gusty roll Is vague, nor comes their cheer of pilotage. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE SITTING by CECIL DAY LEWIS UTOPIA by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON WINTER SONG by KATHERINE MANSFIELD TO W.P.: 3 by GEORGE SANTAYANA HATCHING; FOR DAW AUNG SAN SUU KYI by KAREN SWENSON TUOL SLENG: POL POT'S PRISON by KAREN SWENSON CITY VIGNETTE: RAIN AT NIGHT by SARA TEASDALE THE LOVER PLEADS WITH HIS FRIENDS FOR OLD FRIENDS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS |