III Soul-Scorn

Soul-Scorn

No cloak of cloudy wrack

The mistless mystery mars,

But all the desert is black

Beneath the quivering stars.

I hear the pinions creak

Of night-birds, beating by;

And lost hyaenas shriek

Unto the spectral sky.

The Stars, immortal Sons

Of God, are full of fire;

But we, rejected ones,

Know heav’n but in desire.

My Soul said, ‘Art thou dead?

The chasm of night is riv’n;

What dost thou see?’ I said,

‘The full-fired fires of heav’n.’

‘Look not but see,’ he said.

I said, ‘I know not whether

They are the hosts of God

Clashing their spears together.

So bright the stars appear

Their splendour smokes in heav’n;

I think indeed I hear

Their distant voices ev’n.’

He said, ‘See not but know.’

I said, ‘I cannot see;

I think perhaps they go

To some great victory.’

He said, ‘For ever they go,

Still onward, on and on;

And that is why they know

The victory’s clarion.’

I said, ‘I am too weak

To do more than I must.’

He said, ‘Then cease to seek

And perish in the dust.’