Plumage of gold in the westering glow;
Thoughts upon rapine and slaughter below;
Of thy blood-sprinkled eyrie bethink thee and fly,
Ere Darkness shall chase thee in rage from the sky.
Poor Spirit, alas! that my spirit should be
In strength and in feebleness kindred to thee!
Now rising exultant on pinions of fire,
Now falling and falling, down, down to the mire.
Yea, pity thou me, for not thine the keen pain
Of wings that to reach to the Ultimate, strain:
Thou, happy to sail over mountainous dust;
I, to the Uttermost, longing to thrust
Through showering stars, like adventurous prow
Of some boat of the Ancients, until on the brow
Of ocean there gleam the gold circlet of sand,
And the keel rushes up on Creation's last strand.
Oh! why am I tortured while watching thy course?
Why the fierce longing? and why the remorse?
Ah! why the remorse? O'er the purple ravine
I see thee ascending by pathways unseen,
Nor feel a reproach for not striving to scale
By footholds of sapphire: then why that I fail
To advance by the more inaccessible way
Of sun-sprinkled Space to the Gates of the Day?
