| |
| HE wrought at one great work for years; | |
| The world passed by with lofty look: | |
| Sometimes his eyes were dashed with tears; | |
| Sometimes his lips with laughter shook. | |
| |
| His wife and child went clothed in rags, | 5 |
| And in a windy garret starved: | |
| He trod his measures on the flags, | |
| And high on heaven his music carved. | |
| |
| Wistful he grew, but never feared; | |
| For always on the midnight skies | 10 |
| His rich orchestral score appeared | |
| In stars and zones and galaxies. | |
| |
| He sought to copy down his score: | |
| The moonlight was his lamp: he said, | |
| “Listen, my love;” but on the floor | 15 |
| His wife and child were lying dead. | |
| |
| Her hollow eyes were open wide; | |
| He deemed she heard with special zest: | |
| Her death’s-head infant coldly eyed | |
| The desert of her shrunken breast. | 20 |
| |
| “Listen, my love: my work is done; | |
| I tremble as I touch the page | |
| To sign the sentence of the sun | |
| And crown the great eternal age. | |
| |
| “The slow adagio begins; | 25 |
| The winding-sheets are ravelled out | |
| That swathe the minds of men, the sins | |
| That wrap their rotting souls about. | |
| |
| “The dead are heralded along; | |
| With silver trumps and golden drums, | 30 |
| And flutes and oboes, keen and strong, | |
| My brave andante singing comes. | |
| |
| “Then like a python’s sumptuous dress | |
| The frame of things is cast away, | |
| And out of time’s obscure distress | 35 |
| The thundering scherzo crashes Day. | |
| |
| “For three great orchestras I hope | |
| My mighty music shall be scored: | |
| On three high hills they shall have scope, | |
| With heaven’s vault for a sounding-board. | 40 |
| |
| “Sleep well, love; let your eyelids fall; | |
| Cover the child; good-night, and if … | |
| What? Speak … the traitorous end of all! | |
| Both … cold and hungry … cold and stiff! | |
| |
| “But no, God means us well, I trust: | 45 |
| Dear ones, be happy, hope is nigh: | |
| We are too young to fall to dust, | |
| And too unsatisfied to die.” | |
| |
| He lifted up against his breast | |
| The woman’s body stark and wan; | 50 |
| And to her withered bosom prest | |
| The little skin-clad skeleton. | |
| |
| “You see you are alive,” he cried. | |
| He rocked them gently to and fro. | |
| “No, no, my love, you have not died; | 55 |
| Nor you, my little fellow; no.” | |
| |
| Long in his arms he strained his dead | |
| And crooned an antique lullaby; | |
| Then laid them on the lowly bed, | |
| And broke down with a doleful cry. | 60 |
| |
| “The love, the hope, the blood, the brain, | |
| Of her and me, the budding life, | |
| And my great music,—all in vain! | |
| My unscored work, my child, my wife! | |
| |
| “We drop into oblivion, | 65 |
| And nourish some suburban sod: | |
| My work, this woman, this my son, | |
| Are now no more: there is no God. | |
| |
| “The world’s dustbin; we are due, | |
| And death’s cart waits: be life accurst!” | 70 |
| He stumbled down beside the two, | |
| And, clasping them, his great heart burst. | |
| |
| Straightway he stood at heaven’s gate, | |
| Abashed and trembling for his sin: | |
| I trow he had not long to wait, | 75 |
| For God came out and let him in. | |
| |
| And then there ran a radiant pair, | |
| Ruddy with haste and eager-eyed, | |
| To meet him first upon the stair, | |
| His wife and child beatified. | 80 |
| |
| They clad him in a robe of light, | |
| And gave him heavenly food to eat; | |
| Great seraphs praised him to the height, | |
| Archangels sat about his feet. | |
| |
| God, smiling, took him by the hand, | 85 |
| And led him to the brink of heaven: | |
| He saw where systems whirling stand, | |
| Where galaxies like snow are driven. | |
| |
| Dead silence reigned; a shudder ran | |
| Through space; Time furled his wearied wings; | 90 |
| A slow adagio then began | |
| Sweetly resolving troubled things. | |
| |
| The dead were heralded along: | |
| As if with drums and trumps of flame, | |
| And flutes and oboes keen and strong, | 95 |
| A brave andante singing came. | |
| |
| Then like a python’s sumptuous dress | |
| The frame of things was cast away, | |
| And out of Time’s obscure distress | |
| The conquering scherzo thundered Day. | 100 |
| |
| He doubted; but God said, “Even so; | |
| Nothing is lost that ’s wrought with tears: | |
| The music that you made below | |
| Is now the music of the spheres.” | |
| |
