Let us above these pines, and clouds,
And scents awhile yet dwell;—
Where wouldst thou go, if thou wert now
To sigh a last farewell?"
Thou seest the busy elements
Dissolving one by one
The souls that are acquitted,
For the all-absorbing sun.
Let's sing the song of darkness then;
Thy prison is the Whole;—
What canst thou do, where wilt thou go,
What wilt thou be, my Soul?
Thou wouldst not be the air that weighs
Upon the rising dust;
Thou wouldst not be the fog that chokes
The air in savage lust.
Thou wouldst not be the clouds that block
The smoke's way to a star;
Nor linger in the guilty tears
Of clouds before the bar.
Thou wouldst not be the rain that taunts
The all-devouring sea,
Itself destroying many a nest
In bush and rock and tree.
Thou wouldst not be the thunder's tongue
Spell-binding all the spheres;
Nor wouldst thou be the lightning blade
That stabs and disappears.
Thou wouldst not be the dew that falls
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