Ah, we know you!  Your soul works to infinite ends,
  Frets, uses life up for death’s sake, takes pains,
Flings down love’s self—­“but you, bear me witness, my friends! 
  Have I lost spring? count up (see) the winter’s fresh gains! 
Is the shrub spoilt? the pine’s hair impends!”

XX

What, you’d say—­“Mark how God works!  Years crowd, time wears thin,
  Earth keeps good yet, the sun goes on, stars hold their own,
And you’ll change, climb past sight of the world, shift your skin,
  Never heeding how life moans—­’more flesh now, less bone!’
For that cheek’s worn waste outline (death’s grin)

XXI

“Pleads with time still—­’what good if I lose this? but see—­’”
  (There’s the crab gone!) “’I said, “Though earth sinks,"’” (you perceive? 
Ah, true, back there!) your soul now—­“’"yet some vein might be
  (Could one find it alive in the heart’s core’s pulse, cleave
Through the life-springs where “you” melts in “me")—­

XXII

“’"Some true vein of the absolute soul, which survives
  All that flesh runs to waste through”—­and lo, this fails! 
Here’s death close on us!  One life? a million of lives! 
  Why choose one sail to watch of these infinite sails? 
Time’s a tennis-play? thank you, no, fives!

XXIII

“‘Stop life’s ball then!’ Such folly! melt earth down for that,
  Till the pure ore eludes you and leaves you raw scoriae? 
Pish, the vein’s wrong!” But you, friends—­come, what were you at
  When God spat you out suddenly? what was the story He
Cut short thus, the growth He laid flat?

XXIV

Wait! the crab’s twice alive, mark!  Oh, worthy, your soul,
  Of strange ends, great results, novel labours!  Take note,
I reject this for one! (ay, now, straight to the hole! 
  Safe in sand there—­your skirts smooth out all as they float!)
I, shirk drinking through flaws in the bowl?

XXV

Or suppose now that rock’s cleft—­grim, scored to the quick,
  As a man’s face kept fighting all life through gets scored,
Mossed and marked with grey purulent leprosies, sick,
  Flat and foul as man’s life here (be swift with your sword—­
Cut the soul out, stuck fast where thorns prick!)

XXVI

—­Say it let the rock’s heart out, its meaning, the thing
  All was made for, devised, ruled out gradually, planned—­
Ah, that sea-shell, perhaps—­since it lies, such a ring
  Of pure colour, a cup full of sunbeams, to stand
(Say, in Lent) at the priest’s hand—­(no king!)

XXVII