Restive

I thought to deal the death-stroke at a blow:
To give all, once for all, but never more:—
Then sit to hear the low waves fret the shore,
          Or watch the silent snow.

"Oh rest," I thought, "in silence and the dark:
Oh rest, if nothing else, from head to feet:
Though I may see no more the poppied wheat,
          Or sunny soaring lark.

"These chimes are slow, but surely strike at last:
This sand is slow, but surely droppeth through:
And much there is to suffer, much to do,
          Before the time be past.

"So will I labour, but will not rejoice:
Will do and bear, but will not hope again.
Gone dead alike to pulses of quick pain
          And pleasure's counterpoise."

I said so in my heart: and so I thought
My life would lapse, a tedious monotone:
I thought to shut myself and dwell alone
          Unseeking and unsought:

But first I tired, and then my care grew slack,
Till my heart dreamed, and maybe wandered too:
I felt the sunshine glow again, and knew
          The swallow on its track:

All birds awoke to building in the leaves,
All buds awoke to fulness and sweet scent:
Ah too my heart woke unawares, intent
          On fruitful harvest-sheaves.

Full pulse of life, that I had deemed was dead;
Full throb of youth, that I had deemed at rest.
Alas I cannot build myself a nest,
          I cannot crown my head

With royal purple blossoms for the feast,
Nor flush with laughter, nor exult in song:—
These joys may drift, as time now drifts along;
          And cease, as once they ceased.

I may pursue, and yet may not attain,
Athirst and panting all the days I live:
Or seem to hold, yet nerve myself to give
          What once I gave, again.