The Thread of Life
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The irresponsive silence of the land,The irresponsive sounding of the sea,Speak both one message of one sense to me:--Aloof, aloof, we stand aloof, so standThou too aloof bound with the flawless bandOf inner solitude; we bind not thee;But who from thy self-chain shall set thee free?What heart shall touch thy heart? what hand thy hand?--And I am sometimes proud and sometimes meek,And sometimes I remember days of oldWhen fellowship seemed not so far to seekAnd all the world and I seemed much less cold,And at the rainbow's foot lay surely gold,And hope felt strong and life itself not weak. IIThus am I mine own prison. EverythingAround me free and sunny and at ease:Or if in shadow, in a shade of treesWhich the sun kisses, where the gay birds singAnd where all winds make various murmuring;Where bees are found, with honey for the bees;Where sounds are music, and where silencesAre music of an unlike fashioning.Then gaze I at the merrymaking crew,And smile a moment and a moment sighThinking: Why can I not rejoice with you?But soon I put the foolish fancy by:I am not what I have nor what I do;But what I was I am, I am even I. IIITherefore myself is that one only thingI hold to use or waste, to keep or give;My sole possession every day I live,And still mine own despite Time's winnowing.Ever mine own, while moons and seasons bringFrom crudeness ripeness mellow and sanitive;Ever mine own, till Death shall ply his sieve;And still mine own, when saints break grave and sing.And this myself as king unto my KingI give, to Him Who gave Himself for me;Who gives Himself to me, and bids me singA sweet new song of His redeemed set free;he bids me sing: O death, where is thy sting?And sing: O grave, where is thy victory?
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