Questions of Life

A bending staff I would not break,A feeble faith I would not shake,Nor even rashly pluck awayThe error which some truth may stay,Whose loss might leave the soul withoutA shield against the shafts of doubt.

And yet, at times, when over allA darker mystery seems to fall,(May God forgive the child of dust,Who seeks to know, where Faith should trust!)I raise the questions, old and dark,Of Uzdom’s tempted patriarch,And, speech-confounded, build againThe baffled tower of Shinar’s plain.

I am: how little more I know!Whence came I? Whither do I go?A centred self, which feels and is;A cry between the silences;A shadow-birth of clouds at strifeWith sunshine on the hills of life;A shaft from Nature’s quiver castInto the Future from the Past;Between the cradle and the shroud,A meteor’s flight from cloud to cloud.

Thorough the vastness, arching all,I see the great stars rise and fall,The rounding seasons come and go,The tided oceans ebb and flow;The tokens of a central force,Whose circles, in their widening course,O’erlap and move the universe;The workings of the law whence springsThe rhythmic harmony of things,Which shapes in earth the darkling spar,And orbs in heaven the morning star.Of all I see, in earth and sky,—Star, flower, beast, bird,—what part have I?This conscious life,—is it the sameWhich thrills the universal frame,Whereby the caverned crystal shoots,And mounts the sap from forest roots,Whereby the exiled wood-bird tellsWhen Spring makes green her native dells?How feels the stone the pang of birth,Which brings its sparkling prism forth?The forest-tree the throb which givesThe life-blood to its new-born leaves?Do bird and blossom feel, like me,Life’s many-folded mystery,—The wonder which it is to be?Or stand I severed and distinct,From Nature’s chain of life unlinked?Allied to all, yet not the lessPrisoned in separate consciousness,Alone o’erburdened with a senseOf life, and cause, and consequence?

In vain to me the Sphinx propoundsThe riddle of her sights and sounds;Back still the vaulted mystery givesThe echoed question it receives.What sings the brook? What oracleIs in the pine-tree’s organ swell?What may the wind’s low burden be?The meaning of the moaning sea?The hieroglyphics of the stars?Or clouded sunset’s crimson bars?I vainly ask, for mocks my skillThe trick of Nature’s cipher still.

I turn from Nature unto men,I ask the stylus and the pen;What sang the bards of old? What meantThe prophets of the Orient?The rolls of buried Egypt, hidIn painted tomb and pyramid?What mean Idúmea’s arrowy lines,Or dusk Elora’s monstrous signs?How speaks the primal thought of manFrom the grim carvings of Copan?Where rests the secret? Where the keysOf the old death-bolted mysteries?Alas! the dead retain their trust;Dust hath no answer from the dust.

The great enigma still unguessed,Unanswered the eternal quest;I gather up the scattered raysOf wisdom in the early days,Faint gleams and broken, like the light

Of meteors in a northern night,Betraying to the darkling earthThe unseen sun which gave them birth;I listen to the sibyl’s chant,The voice of priest and hierophant;I know what Indian Kreeshna saith,And what of life and what of deathThe demon taught to Socrates;And what, beneath his garden-treesSlow pacing, with a dream-like tread,The solemn-thoughted Plato said;Nor lack I tokens, great or small,Of God’s clear light in each and all,While holding with more dear regardThe scroll of Hebrew seer and bard,The starry pages promise-litWith Christ’s Evangel over-writ,Thy miracle of life and death,O Holy One of Nazareth!

On Aztec ruins, gray and lone,The circling serpent coils in stone,—Type of the endless and unknown;Whereof we seek the clue to find,With groping fingers of the blind!Forever sought, and never found,We trace that serpent-symbol roundOur resting-place, our starting bound!Oh, thriftlessness of dream and guess!Oh, wisdom which is foolishness!Why idly seek from outward thingsThe answer inward silence brings?Why stretch beyond our proper sphereAnd age, for that which lies so near?Why climb the far-off hills with pain,A nearer view of heaven to gain?In lowliest depths of bosky dellsThe hermit Contemplation dwells.A fountain’s pine-hung slope his seat,And lotus-twined his silent feet,Whence, piercing heaven, with screenëd sight,He sees at noon the stars, whose lightShall glorify the coming night.

Here let me pause, my quest forego;Enough for me to feel and knowThat He in whom the cause and end,The past and future, meet and blend,—Who, girt with his Immensities,Our vast and star-hung system sees,Small as the clustered Pleiades,—Moves not alone the heavenly quires,But waves the spring-time’s grassy spires,Guards not archangel feet alone,But deigns to guide and keep my own;Speaks not alone the words of fateWhich worlds destroy, and worlds create,But whispers in my spirit’s ear,In tones of love, or warning fear,A language none beside may hear.

To Him, from wanderings long and wild,I come, an over-wearied child,In cool and shade His peace to find,Like dew-fall settling on my mind.Assured that all I know is best,And humbly trusting for the rest,I turn from Fancy’s cloud-built scheme,Dark creed, and mournful eastern dreamOf power, impersonal and cold,Controlling all, itself controlled,Maker and slave of iron laws,Alike the subject and the cause;From vain philosophies, that tryThe sevenfold gates of mystery,And, baffled ever, babble still,Word-prodigal of fate and will;From Nature, and her mockery, Art,And book and speech of men apart,To the still witness in my heart;With reverence waiting to beholdHis Avatár of love untold,The Eternal Beauty new and old!