CXCII. THE CHOICE. (House of Life.-LXXII.) THINK thou and act; to-morrow thou shalt die. Outstretched in the sun's warmth upon the shore, Thou say'st: "Man's measured path is all gone o'er: Up all his years, steeply, with strain and sigh, Man clomb until he touched the truth; and I, Even I, am he whom it was destined for." How should this be! Art thou then so much more Than they who sowed, that thou shouldst reap thereby? Nay, come up hither. From this wave-washed mound Then reach on with thy thought till it be drown'd. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. CXCIII. LOST DAYS. (House of Life.—LXXXVI.) THE lost days of my life until to-day, What were they, could I see them on the street Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat Sown once for food but trodden into clay? Or golden coins squandered and still to pay? Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet? Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway? I do not see them here; but after death God knows I know the faces I shall see, Each one a murdered self, with low last breath. "I am thyself,-what hast thou done to me?' “And I—and I-thyself," (lo! each one saith,) "And thou thyself to all eternity!" CXCIV. "RETRO ME, SATHANA!" (House of Life.—xc.) GET thee behind me. Even as, heavy-curled, Is snatched from out his chariot by the hair, For certain years, for certain months and days. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. CXCV. A SUPERSCRIPTION. (House of Life.-XCVII.) Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been ; I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between ; Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart One moment through thy soul the soft surprise Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs, Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. CXCVI. DEMOCRACY DOWNTRODDEN. How long, O Lord?-The voice is sounding still: In Patmos. It doth cry aloud and will The day of the great reckoning-bone for bone, And blood for righteous blood, and groan for groan: Then shall it cease on the air with a sudden thrill; Not slowly growing fainter if the rod Strikes here or there amid the evil throng Or one oppressor's hand is stayed and numbs; For shall all hear the voice excepting God, Or God not listen, hearing ?-Lord, how long? |