For certain minutes at the least That
crafty demon and that loud beast That
plague me day and night Ran
out of my sight; Though
I had long perned in the gyre, Between
my hatred and desire. I
saw my freedom won And
all laugh in the sun. The
glittering eyes in a death’s head Of
old Luke Wadding’s portrait said Welcome,
and the Ormondes all Nodded
upon the wall, And
even Strafford smiled as though It
made him happier to know I
understood his plan. Now
that the loud beast ran There
was no portrait in the Gallery But
beckoned to sweet company, For
all men’s thoughts grew clear Being
dear as mine are dear. But
soon a tear-drop started up, For
aimless joy had made me stop Beside
the little lake To
watch a white gull take A
bit of bread thrown up into the air; Now
gyring down and perning there He
splashed where an absurd Portly
green-pated bird Shook
off the water from his back; Being
no more demoniac A
stupid happy creature Could
rouse my whole nature. Yet
I am certain as can be That
every natural victory Belongs
to beast or demon, That
never yet had freeman Right
mastery of natural things, And
that mere growing old, that brings Chilled
blood, this sweetness brought; Yet
have no dearer thought Than
that I may find out a way To
make it linger half a day. O
what a sweetness strayed Through
barren Thebaid, Or
by the Mareotic sea When
that exultant Anthony And
twice a thousand more Starved
upon the shore And
withered to a bag of bones! What had the Caesars but their thrones? |
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