Jephthah and Other Mysteries

LYRICAL AND DRAMATIC. 153 The bank slips by, we gather not its fruit, We plant no seed, we irrigate no root True men have planted ; and the tare and thorn Spring to rank weedy vigour ; poisons shoot Into the overspreading foliage ; So as days darken into weary age The flowers are fewer; the weeds are stronger born And hands are grown too feeble to assuage “Their venom : then, th’ unutterable sea ! Is she green-cinctured with the earlier tree Of Life? Do blossoms blow or weeds create A foul rank undergrowth of misery ? From the deep water of the bitterest brine Drowned children raise their arms ; their lips combine To force a shriek ; bid them go contemplate The cold philosophy of Zeno’s shrine? Nay, stretch a hand! Although their eagle clutch - O’erturn thy skiff, yet it is overmuch To grieve for that: life is not so divine— I count it little grief to part with such! We are wild serpents in a ring of fire; Our necks stretch out, our haggard eyes aspire In desperation, from the fearful line Our coils revulse in impotence and ire.