| For certain minutes at the least |
| That crafty demon and that loud beast |
| That plague me day and night |
| Ran out of my sight; |
| Though I had long perned in the gyre, |
| Between my hatred and desire, |
| I saw my
freedom won |
| And all laugh in the sun. |
|
|
|
|
| The glittering eyes in a death’s head |
| Of old Luke Wadding’s portrait
said |
| Welcome, and the Ormondes all |
| Nodded upon the wall, |
| And even Strafford smiled as though |
| It
made him happier to know |
| I understood his plan. |
| Now that the loud beast ran |
| There was no portrait in
the Gallery |
| But beckoned to sweet company, |
| For all men’s thoughts grew clear |
| Being dear as mine are
dear. |
|
|
|
|
| But soon a tear-drop started up, |
| For aimless joy had made me stop |
| Beside the little lake |
| To watch
a white gull take |
| A bit of bread thrown up into the air; |
| Now gyring down and perning there |
| He splashed
where an absurd |
| Portly green-pated bird |
| Shook off the water from his back; |
| Being no more demoniac |
| A stupid happy creature |
| Could rouse my whole nature. |
|
|
|
|
| Yet I am certain as can be |
| That every natural
victory |
| Belongs to beast or demon, |
| That never yet had freeman |
| Right mastery of natural things, |
| And
that mere growing old, that brings |
| Chilled blood, this sweetness brought; |
| Yet have no dearer thought |
| Than that I may find out a way |
| To make it linger half a day. |
|
|
|
|
| O what a sweetness strayed |
| Through barren
Thebaid, |
| Or by the Mareotic sea |
| When that exultant Anthony |
| And twice a thousand more |
| Starved upon
the shore |
| And withered to a bag of bones! |
| What had the Caesars but their thrones? |
