Between extremities

    Man runs his course；

    A brand， or flaming breath，

    Comes to destroy

    All those antinomies

    Of day and night；

    The body calls it death，

    The heart remorse.

    But if these be right

    What is joy？

    II

    A tree there is that from its topmost bough

    Is half all glittering flame and half all green

    Abounding foliage moistened with the dew；

    And half is half and yet is all the scene；

    And half and half consume what they renew，

    And he that Attis' image hangs between

    That staring fury and the blind lush leaf

    May know not what he knows， but knows not grief.

    III

    Get all the gold and silver that you can，

    Satisfy ambition， or animate

    The trivial days and ram them with the sun，

    And yet upon these maxims meditate：

    All women dote upon an idle man

    Although their children need a rich estate；

    No man has ever lived that had enough

    Of children's gratitude or woman's love.

    No longer in Lethean foliage caught

    Begin the preparation for your death

    And from the fortieth winter by that thought

    Test every work of intellect or faith，

    And everything that your own hands have wrought，

    And call those works extravagance of breath

    That are not suited for such men as come

    Proud， open-eyed and laughing to the tomb.

    IV

    My fiftieth year had come and gone，

    I sat， a solitary man，

    In a crowded London shop，

    An open book and empty cup

    On the marble table-top.

    While on the shop and street I gazed

    My body of a sudden blazed；

    And twenty minutes more or less

    It seemed， so great my happiness，

    That I was blessèd and could bless.

    V

    Although the summer sunlight gild

    Cloudy leafage of the sky，

    Or wintry moonlight sink the field

    In storm-scattered intricacy，

    I cannot look thereon，

    Responsibility so weighs me down.

    Things said or done long years ago，

    Or things I did not do or say

    But thought that I might say or do，

    Weigh me down， and not a day

    But something is recalled，

    My conscience or my vanity appalled.

    VI

    A rivery field spread out below，

    An odour of the new-mown hay

    In his nostrils， the great lord of Chou

    Cried， casting off the mountain snow，

    'Let all things pass away.'

    Wheels by milk-white asses drawn

    Where Babylon or Nineveh

    Rose； some conqueror drew rein

    And cried to battle-weary men，

    'Let all things pass away.'

    From man's blood-sodden heart are sprung

    Those branches of the night and day

    Where the gaudy moon is hung.

    What's the meaning of all song？

    'Let all things pass away.'

    VII

    The Soul. Seek out reality， leave things that seem.

    The Heart. What， be a singer born and lack a theme？

    The Soul. Isaiah's coal， what more can man desire？

    The Heart. Struck dumb in the simplicity of fire！

    The Soul. Look on that fire， salvation walks within.

    The Heart. What theme had Homer but original sin？

    VIII

    Must we part， Von Hügel， though much alike， for we

    Accept the miracles of the saints and honour sanctity？

    The body of Saint Teresa lies undecayed in tomb，

    Bathed in miraculous oil， sweet odours from it come，

    Healing from its lettered slab. Those self-same hands perchance

    Eternalised the body of a modern saint that once

    Had scooped out Pharaoh's mummy. I-though heart might find relief

    Did I become a Christian man and choose for my belief

    What seems most welcome in the tomb -play a predestined part.

    Homer is my example and his unchristened heart.

    The lion and the honeycomb， what has Scripture said？

    So get you gone， Von Hügel， though with blessings on your head.