* * * * *

PROSPICE

Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat,
  The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
  I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
  The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
  Yet the strong man must go: 
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
  And the barriers fall, 10
Though a battle’s to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
  The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so—­one fight more,
  The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
  And bade me creep past,
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
  The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life’s arrears
  Of pain, darkness, and cold. 20
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
  The black minute’s at end,
And the elements’ rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
  Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
  Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul!  I shall clasp thee again,
  And with God be the rest!

* * * * *

EPILOGUE TO “ASOLANDO”

At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time,
  When you set your fancies free,
Will they pass to where—­by death, fools think, imprisoned—­
Low he lies who once so loved you whom you loved so,
        —­Pity me?

Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! 
  What had I on earth to do
With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly? 
Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel
          —­Being—­who? 10

One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
  Never doubted clouds would break,
Never dreamed, tho’ right were worsted, wrong would triumph,
  Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
          Sleep to wake.

No, at noonday in the bustle of man’s work-time
  Greet the unseen with a cheer! 
Bid him forward, breast and back as either should be,
  “Strive and thrive!” cry “Speed,—­fight on, fare ever
          There as here!” 20

* * * * *

“DE GUSTIBUS—­”

Your ghost will walk, you lover of trees,
    (If our loves remain)
    In an English lane,
By a cornfield-side a-flutter with poppies. 
Hark, those two in the hazel coppice—­
A boy and a girl, if the good fates please,
    Making love, say,—­
    The happier they! 
Draw yourself up from the light of the moon. 
And let them pass, as they will too soon, 10
    With the beanflower’s boon,
    And the blackbird’s tune,
    And May, and June!