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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
DARTMOOR: SUNSET AT CHAGFORD: RESPONDENT DHMIOURGOS, by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN Poet's Biography First Line: Yes, it is hard, but not for you alone Last Line: Why, you are lord, if any one is lord. Alternate Author Name(s): Brown, T. E. Subject(s): God | |||
YES, it is hard, but not for you alone. You speak of cup and throne, And all that separates Me from you. It is not that you don't believe: It is but that you misconceive The work I have to do. No throne, no cup, Nor down, but likest up, As from a deep black shaft, I look to see The fabric of My own immensity. You have the temporal activity, and rejoice In sweet articulate voice -- Tunes, songs. To Me no less Belongs The fixed, sad fashion of productiveness. You think that I am wise, Or cunning, clever as a man is clever. You think all knowledge with Me lies, From Me must flow. I know not if I know -- But this I know, I will work on for ever. You fret because you are not this and that, And so you die; But I, Who have not sat Since first into the void I swam, Obeying Mine own laws, Persist, because I am but what I am. I am old and blind; I have no speech "Wherewith to reach" Your quick-selecting ears. And yet I mark your tears; And yet I would be kind. And so I strain To speak, as now; And, in more cheerful vein, You haply will allow I make My meaning fairly plain. Therefore it is I store Such beauty in the clouds, and on the shore Make foam-flakes glisten; therefore you have seen This sunset; therefore 'tis the green And lusty grass Hath come to pass, And flame Lies sparkling in the dews -- And yet I cannot choose But do the same! I am no surgeon, I have no lancet, but I mingle Sap for the buds, that they may burgeon, And tingle With soft sweet throes Of parturition vegetal. And so to all The surfaces I outward press, And hold the very brink Of speech, that I would think Speech must come next. But I can do no more: wherefore I am not vexed; But you are, being perplexed With suppositions, scribbling o'er the text Of natural life. And, seeing that this is so, And that I cannot know The innumerous ills, Therefore I strew the hills And vallies with delight, That, day or night, In sad or merry plight, You may catch sight Of some sweet joy that thrills Your heart. And what if I impart The same to frog or newt, What if I steep the root Of some old stump in bright vermilion, And if the spider in his quaint pavilion Catches a sunbeam where he thought a fly, Ah, why Should I not care for such? I, Who make all things, know it is not much. And, by analogy I must suppose They have their woes Like you: Therefore I still must strew Joys that may wait for centuries, And light at last on Socrates, Or on the frog, whose eyes You may have noticed full of bright surprise -- Or have you not? Ah, then You only think of men! But I would have no single creature miss One possible bliss. And this Is certain: never be afraid! I love what I have made. I know this is not wit, This is not to be clever, Or anything whatever. You see, I am a servant, that is it: You've hit The mark -- a servant; for the other word -- Why, you are Lord, if any one is Lord. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MOUNTAIN IS STRIPPED by DAVID IGNATOW AS CLOSE AS BREATHING by MARK JARMAN UNHOLY SONNET 1 by MARK JARMAN UNHOLY SONNET 13 by MARK JARMAN BIRTH-DUES by ROBINSON JEFFERS THE SILENT SHEPHERDS by ROBINSON JEFFERS GOING TO THE HORSE FLATS by ROBINSON JEFFERS A SERMON AT CLEVEDON; GOOD FRIDAY by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |
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