To the Sinking Sun
HOW graciously thou wear’st the yokeOf use that does not fail!The grasses, like an anchored smoke,Ride in the bending gale;This knoll is snowed with blosmy manna,And fire-dropt as a seraph’s mail.
Here every eve thou stretchest outUntarnishable wing,And marvellously bring’st aboutNewly an olden thing;Nor ever through like-ordered heavenMoves largely thy grave progressing.
Here every eve thou goest downBehind the self-same hill,Nor ever twice alike go’st downBehind the self-same hill;Nor like-ways is one flame-sopped flowerPossessed with glory past its will.
Not twice alike! I am not blind,My sight is live to see;And yet I do complain of thyWeary variety.O Sun! I ask thee less or more,Change not at all, or utterly!
O give me unprevisioned new,Or give to change reprieve!For new in me is olden too,That I for sameness grieve.O flowers! O grasses! be but onceThe grass and flower of yester-eve!
Wonder and sadness are the lotOf change: thou yield’st mine eyesGrief of vicissitude, but notIts penetrant surprise.Immutability mutableBurthens my spirit and the skies.
O altered joy, all joyed of yore,Plodding in unconned ways!O grief grieved out, and yet once moreA dull, new, staled amaze!I dream, and all was dreamed before,Or dream I so? the dreamer says.