Part 11

WHAT is to come we know not. But we know That what has been was good—was good to show, Better to hide, and best of all to bear. We are the masters of the days that were: We have lived, we have loved, we have suffered . . . even so.

Shall we not take the ebb who had the flow? Life was our friend. Now, if it be our foe— Dear, though it spoil and break us!—need we care What is to come?

Let the great winds their worst and wildest blow, Or the gold weather round us mellow slow: We have fulfilled ourselves, and we can dare And we can conquer, though we may not share In the rich quiet of the afterglow What is to come.

ECHOES

1872–1889

Aquí está encerrada el alma del licenciado Pedro Garcías.

GIL BLAS AU LECTEUR.

I TO MY MOTHER

CHIMING a dream by the way With ocean’s rapture and roar, I met a maiden to-day Walking alone on the shore: Walking in maiden wise, Modest and kind and fair, The freshness of spring in her eyes And the fulness of spring in her hair.

Cloud-shadow and scudding sun-burst Were swift on the floor of the sea, And a mad wind was romping its worst, But what was their magic to me? Or the charm of the midsummer skies? I only saw she was there, A dream of the sea in her eyes And the kiss of the sea in her hair.

I watched her vanish in space; She came where I walked no more; But something had passed of her grace To the spell of the wave and the shore; And now, as the glad stars rise, She comes to me, rosy and rare, The delight of the wind in her eyes And the hand of the wind in her hair.

1872

LIFE is bitter. All the faces of the years, Young and old, are grey with travail and with tears. Must we only wake to toil, to tire, to weep? In the sun, among the leaves, upon the flowers, Slumber stills to dreamy death the heavy hours . . . Let me sleep.

Riches won but mock the old, unable years; Fame’s a pearl that hides beneath a sea of tears; Love must wither, or must live alone and weep. In the sunshine, through the leaves, across the flowers, While we slumber, death approaches though the hours! . . . Let me sleep.

1872

III

O, GATHER me the rose, the rose, While yet in flower we find it, For summer smiles, but summer goes, And winter waits behind it!

For with the dream foregone, foregone, The deed forborne for ever, The worm, regret, will canker on, And Time will turn him never.

So well it were to love, my love, And cheat of any laughter The fate beneath us and above, The dark before and after.

The myrtle and the rose, the rose, The sunshine and the swallow, The dream that comes, the wish that goes, The memories that follow!

1874

IV I. M. R. T. HAMILTON BRUCE (1846–1899)

OUT of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.

1875

I AM the Reaper. All things with heedful hook Silent I gather. Pale roses touched with the spring, Tall corn in summer, Fruits rich with autumn, and frail winter blossoms— Reaping, still reaping— All things with heedful hook Timely I gather.