V. They sat them down upon the yellow sand, CHORIC SONG. 1. There is sweet music here that softer falls Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And through the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 2. Why are we weighed upon with heaviness, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? 3. Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Lo! sweetened with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 4. Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah! why Should life all labor be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little Let us alone. while our lips are dumb. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave, In silence ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death or dreamful ease! 5. How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Eating the Lotos, day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; Heaped over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! 6. Dear is the memory of our wedded lives; And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffered change; Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile : Long labor unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars, And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. 7. But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly,) With half-dropt eyelids still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly |