The Poet to His Childhood[1]

The Poet to His Childhood^[1]

In my thought I see you stand with a path on either hand,—

Hills that look into the sun, and there a river’d meadow land.

And your lost voice, with the things that it decreed, across me thrills,

When you thought—and chose the hills:

“If it prove a life of pain, greater have I judged the gain.

With a singing soul, for music’s sake I climb and meet the rain;

And I choose, while I am calm, my thought and labouring to be

Unconsoled by sympathy.”

Do you know, who are so bold, how in sooth the rule will hold,

Settled by a wayward child’s ideal at some ten years old?—

How the human arms you slip from, thoughts and love you stay not for,

Will not open to you more?

You were rash then, little child, for the skies with storms are wild,

And you faced the dim horizon with its whirl of mists, and smiled;

Climbing a little higher, lonelier, in the solitary sun,

To feel how the winds came on.

8And if e’er you should come down to the village or the town,

With the cold rain for your garland, and the wind for your renown,

You will stand upon the thresholds with a face of dumb desire,

Nor be known by any fire.

· · · · ·

I rebel not, child gone by, but obey you wonderingly:

For you knew not, rash young speaker, all you spoke; and now will I,

With the life and all the loneliness revealed that you saw fit,

Sing the Amen, knowing it.