Song of the wave / George Cabot Lodge [electronic text]

THEY

"Oh sprich mir nicht von jener bunten Menge,Bei deren Anblick uns der Geist entflieht!"

—GOETHE.

THEIR voices die and calmly leave This interlude of running rain, This solitude of heart and brain, This solemn pause and brief reprieve.

And as their voices they shall die, Dim darkened spirits dulled with sound; The truth they never sought nor found Shall give their little lives the lie.

They live for life, their needs are filled, And in their false and narrow scope They mock at dream and jeer at hope; Their foolish noise shall soon be stilled.

They live and laugh and cease to be, They fade and fall and rise again, Their scorn is false, their praise is vain, They live and die unceasingly.

They are as writings on the snow, That pass and leave no trace behind; They mocked the sun, for they were blind, The Truth, because they could not know.

Have patience! Yet a little while, Thou, too, shalt pass beyond their ken; The stupid scorn of vulgar men May madden, but cannot defile.

If on the fire-forged nether springsThy hands shall base the work they do, What matter if the pure and true Be bought and sold for meaner things?

For if thro' thee, whate'er the cost, Pure light may shine in word or deed, Thy work shall live; thou art the seed Of what can never quite be lost.

So take no heed of all the loud, Persistent folly, scorn and sin, But, where the light has entered in, Look steadfast, unafraid and proud.

They pass like winds that chafe the sea— Strive on unvexed with fear or hate, For calm abides and consummate The Peace that was, is and shall be.