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- THE MAN AND THE ECHO
-
- i{Man}
- IN a cleft that's christened Alt
- Under broken stone I halt
- At the bottom of a pit
- That broad noon has never lit,
- And shout a secret to the stone.
- All that I have said and done,
- Now that I am old and ill,
- Turns into a question till
- I lie awake night after night
- And never get the answers right.
- Did that play of mine send out
- Certain men the English shot?
- Did words of mine put too great strain
- On that woman's reeling brain?
- Could my spoken words have checked
- That whereby a house lay wrecked?
- And all seems evil until I
- Sleepless would lie down and die.
- i{Echo}
-
- Lie down and die.
-
- i{Man}
- That were to shirk
- The spiritual intellect's great work,
- And shirk it in vain. There is no release
- In a bodkin or disease,
- Nor can there be work so great
- As that which cleans man's dirty slate.
- While man can still his body keep
- Wine or love drug him to sleep,
- Waking he thanks the Lord that he
- Has body and its stupidity,
- But body gone he sleeps no more,
- And till his intellect grows sure
- That all's arranged in one clear view,
- pursues the thoughts that I pursue,
- Then stands in judgment on his soul,
- And, all work done, dismisses all
- Out of intellect and sight
- And sinks at last into the night.
-
- i{Echo}
- Into the night.
-
- i{Man}
- O Rocky Voice,
- Shall we in that great night rejoice?
- What do we know but that we face
- One another in this place?
- But hush, for I have lost the theme,
- Its joy or night-seem but a dream;
- Up there some hawk or owl has struck,
- Dropping out of sky or rock,
- A stricken rabbit is crying out,
- And its cry distracts my thought.
-