POSTHUMOUS POEMS
VI
These things that are and shall abide from hence
It may be that he sees them now, being dead,
And it may be that when the smitten sense
Began to pause, and pain was quieted,
And labour almost kissed the lips of peace,
And sound and sight of usual things had fled
From the most patient face of his decease,
He saw them also then; we cannot say,
But surely when the pained breath found ease
And put the heaviness of life away,
Such things as these were not estranged from him.
The soul, grown too rebellious to stay,
This shameful body where all things are dim,
Abode awhile in them and was made glad
In its blind pause upon the middle rim
Between the new life and the life it had,
This noble England that must hold him dear
Always, and always in his name keep sad
Her histories, and embalm with costly fear
And with rare hope and with a royal pride
Her memories of him that honoured her,
Was this not worth the pain wherein he died?
And in that lordly praise and large account
Was not his ample spirit satisfied?
He who slakes thirst at some uncleaner fount
Shall thirst again; but he shall win full ease
Who finds pure wells far up the painful mount.
These things that are and shall abide from hence
It may be that he sees them now, being dead,
And it may be that when the smitten sense
Began to pause, and pain was quieted,
And labour almost kissed the lips of peace,
And sound and sight of usual things had fled
From the most patient face of his decease,
He saw them also then; we cannot say,
But surely when the pained breath found ease
And put the heaviness of life away,
Such things as these were not estranged from him.
The soul, grown too rebellious to stay,
This shameful body where all things are dim,
Abode awhile in them and was made glad
In its blind pause upon the middle rim
Between the new life and the life it had,
This noble England that must hold him dear
Always, and always in his name keep sad
Her histories, and embalm with costly fear
And with rare hope and with a royal pride
Her memories of him that honoured her,
Was this not worth the pain wherein he died?
And in that lordly praise and large account
Was not his ample spirit satisfied?
He who slakes thirst at some uncleaner fount
Shall thirst again; but he shall win full ease
Who finds pure wells far up the painful mount.
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