So let them pass, these songs of mine, Into oblivion, nor repine; Abandoned ruins of large schemes, Dimmed lights adrift from nobler dreams, Weak wings I sped on quests divine, So let them pass, these songs of mine.
They soar, or sink ephemeral--I care not greatly which befall!
For if no song I e'er had wrought, Still have I loved and laughed and fought;
So let them pass, these songs of mine;
I sting too hot with life to whine!
Still shall I struggle, fail, aspire, Lose God, and find Gods in the mire, And drink dream-deep life's heady wine--So let them pass, these songs of mine.
I AM mine own priest, and I shrive myself Of all my wasted yesterdays. Though sin And sloth and foolishness, and all ill weeds Of error, evil, and neglect grow rank And ugly there, I dare forgive myself That error, sin, and sloth and foolishness.
God knows that yesterday I played the fool;
God knows that yesterday I played the knave;
But shall I therefore cloud this new dawn o'er With fog of futile sighs and vain regrets?
This is another day! And flushed Hope walks Adown the sunward slopes with golden shoon.
This is another day; and its young strength Is laid upon the quivering hills until, Like Egypt's Memnon, they grow quick with song.
This is another day, and the bold world Leaps up and grasps its light, and laughs, as leapt Prometheus up and wrenched the fire from Zeus.
This is another day--are its eyes blurred With maudlin grief for any wasted past?
A thousand thousand failures shall not daunt!
Let dust clasp dust; death, death--I am alive!
And out of all the dust and death of mine Old selves I dare to lift a singing heart And living faith; my spirit dares drink deep Of the red mirth mantling in the cup of morn.
FLEET across the grasses Flash the feet of Spring, Piping, as he passes Fleet across the grasses, "Follow, lads and lasses!
Sing, world, sing!"
Fleet across the grasses Flash the feet of Spring!
Idle winds deliver Rumors through the town, Tales of reeds that quiver, Idle winds deliver, Where the rapid river Drags the willows down--Idle winds deliver Rumors through the town.
In the country places By the silver brooks April airs her graces;
In the country places Wayward April paces, Laughter in her looks;
In the country places By the silver brooks.
Hints of alien glamor Even reach the town; Urban muses stammer Hints of alien glamor, But the city's clamor Beats the voices down; Hints of alien glamor Even reach the town.
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