How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

Justice incited my sublime Creator;
Created me divine Omnipotence,
The highest Wisdom and the primal Love.

Before me there were no created things,
Only eterne, and I eternal last.
All hope abandon, ye who enter in!

These words in somber color I beheld
Written upon the summit of a gate;
Whence I: Their sense is, Master, hard to me!

And he to me, as one experienced:
Here all suspicion needs must be abandoned,
All cowardice must needs be here extinct.

We to the place have come, where I have told thee
Thou shalt behold the people dolorous  
Who have foregone the good of intellect.  

And after he had laid his hand on mine  
With joyful mien, whence I was comforted,  
He led me in among the secret things.  

There sighs, complaints, and ululations loud  
Resounded through the air without a star,  
Whence I, at the beginning, wept thereat.  

Languages diverse, horrible dialects,  
Accents of anger, words of agony,  
And voices high and hoarse, with sound of hands,  

Made up a tumult that goes whirling on  
Forever in that air forever black,  
Even as the sand doth, when the whirlwind breathes.  

And I, who had my head with horror bound,  
Said: Master, what is this which now I hear?  
What folk is this, which seems by pain so vanquished?  

And he to me: This miserable mode  
Maintain the melancholy souls of those  
Who lived withouten infamy or praise.  

Commingled are they with that caitiff choir  
Of Angels, who have not rebellious been,  
Nor faithful were to God, but were for self.  

The heavens expelled them, not to be less fair;  
Nor them the nethermore abyss receives,  
For glory none the damned would have from them.  

And I: O Master, what so grievous is  
To these, that maketh them lament so sore?  
He answered: I will tell thee very briefly.  

These have no longer any hope of death;  
And this blind life of theirs is so debased,  
They envious are of every other fate.  

No fame of them the world permits to be;  
Misericord and Justice both disdain them.  
Let us not speak of them, but look, and pass.  

And I, who looked again, beheld a banner,  
Which, whirling round, ran on so rapidly,  
That of all pause it seemed to me indignant;  

And after it there came so long a train  
Of people, that I ne'er would have believed  
That ever Death so many had undone.  

When some among them I had recognized.  
I looked, and I beheld the shade of him  
Who made through cowardice the great refusal.  

Forthwith I comprehended, and was certain,  
That this the sect was of the caitiff wretches  
Hateful to God and to his enemies.  

These miscreants, who never were alive,
Were naked, and were stung exceedingly  
By gadflies and by hornets that were there.  

These did their faces irrigate with blood,  
Which, with their tears commingled, at their feet  
By the disgusting worms was gathered up.  

And when to gazing farther I betook me.  
People I saw on a great river's bank;  
Whence said I: Master, now vouchsafe to me,  

That I may know who these are, and what law  
Makes them appear so ready to pass over,  
As I discern athwart the dusky light.  

And he to me: These things shall all be known  
To thee, as soon as we our footsteps stay  
Upon the dismal shore of Acheron.  

Then with mine eyes ashamed and downward cast,  
Fearing my words might irksome be to him,
From speech refrained I till we reached the river.  

And lo! towards us coming in a boat  
An old man, hoary with the hair of eld,  
Crying: Woe unto you, ye souls depraved  

Hope nevermore to look upon the heavens;  
I come to lead you to the other shore,  
To the eternal shades in heat and frost.  

And thou, that yonder standest, living soul,  
Withdraw thee from these people, who are dead--
But when he saw that I did not withdraw,  

He said: By other ways, by other ports  
Thou to the shore shalt come, not here, for, passage;  
A lighter vessel needs must carry thee.  

And unto him the Guide: Vex thee not, Charon;  
It is so willed there where is power to do  
That which is willed; and farther question not.

Thereat were quieted the fleecy cheeks  
Of him the ferryman of the livid fen,  
Who round about his eyes had wheels of flame.  

But all those souls who weary were and naked  
Their color changed and gnashed their teeth together,  
As soon as they had heard those cruel words.  

God they blasphemed and their progenitors,  
The human race, the place, the time, the seed  
Of their engendering and of their birth!  

Thereafter all together they drew back,  
Bitterly weeping, to the accursed shore,  
Which waiteth every man who fears not God.  

Charon the demon, with the eyes of glede,  
Beckoning to them, collects them all together,  
Beats with his oar whoever lags behind.  

As in the autumn-time the leaves fall off,
First one and then another, till the branch  
Unto the earth surrenders all its spoils;  

In similar wise the evil seed of Adam  
Throw themselves from that margin one by one,  
At signals, as a bird unto its lure.  

So they depart across the dusky wave,  
And ere upon the other side they land,  
Again on this side a new troop assembles.  

My son, the courteous Master said to me,  
All those who perish in the wrath of God  
Here meet together out of every land;  

And ready are they to pass o'er the river,  
Because celestial Justice spurs them on,  
So that their fear is turned into desire.  

This way there never passes a good soul;  
And hence if Charon doth complain of thee
Well mayst thou know now what his speech imports.  

This being finished, all the dusk champaign  
Trembled so violently, that of that terror  
The recollection bathes me still with sweat.  

The land of tears gave forth a blast of wind,  
And fulminated a vermilion light,  
Which overmastered in me every sense,  

Where the wings of a sunny Dome expand
I saw a Banner in gladsome air-
Starry, like Berenice's Hair-
Afloat in broadened bravery there;
With undulating long-drawn flow,
As rolled Brazilian billows go
Voluminously o'er the Line.
The Land reposed in peace below;
  The children in their glee
Were folded to the exulting heart
  Of young Maternity.

II

Later, and it streamed in fight
  When tempest mingled with the fray,
And over the spear-point of the shaft
  I saw the ambiguous lightning play.
Valor with Valor strove, and died:
Fierce was Despair, and cruel was Pride;
And the lorn Mother speechless stood,
Pale at the fury of her brood.

III

Yet later, and the silk did wind
 Her fair cold for;
Little availed the shining shroud,
  Though ruddy in hue, to cheer or warm
A watcher looked upon her low, and said-
She sleeps, but sleeps, she is not dead.
  But in that sleep contortion showed
The terror of the vision there-
  A silent vision unavowed,
Revealing earth's foundation bare,
  And Gorgon in her hidden place.
It was a thing of fear to see
  So foul a dream upon so fair a face,
And the dreamer lying in that starry shroud.

IV

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
  Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
  Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
  Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
  Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
  All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
  Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
  Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
  Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
  Left of six hundred.

II.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

III.
Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide swift away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

IV.
Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

                              Then let me own
                                   I'm an aesthetic sham!

                              This air severe
                                   Is but a mere
                                                       Veneer!

                              This cynic smile
                                   Is but a wile
                                                       Of guile!

                              This costume chaste
                                   Is but good taste
                                                       Misplaced!

                                   Let me confess!
          A languid love for lilies does not blight me!
          Lank limbs and haggard cheeks do not delight me!
               I do not care for dirty greens
                     By any means.
                     I do not long for all one sees
                              That's Japanese.
                     I am not fond of uttering platitudes
                              In stained-glass attitudes.
                     In short, my medievalism's affectation,
                     Born of a morbid love of admiration!

If you're anxious for to shine in the high aesthetic line as a man of culture rare,
You must get up all the germs of the transcendental terms, and plant them
     everywhere.
You must lie upon the daisies and discourse in novel phrases of your complicated
     state of mind.
The meaning doesn't matter if it's only idle chatter of a transcendental kind.
                      And everyone will say,
                      As you walk your mystic way,
"If this young man expresses himself in terms too deep for me,
Why, what a very singularly deep young man this deep young man must be!"

Be eloquent in praise of the very dull old days which have long since passed
     away,
And convince 'em, if you can, that the reign of good Queen Anne was Culture's
     palmiest day.
Of course you will pooh-pooh whatever's fresh and new, and declare it's crude
     and mean,
For Art stopped short in the cultivated court of the Empress Josephine.
                      And everyone will say,
                      As you walk your mystic way,
"If that's not good enough for him which is good enough for me,
Why, what a very cultivated kind of youth this kind of youth must be!"

Thanked be fortune, it hath been otherwise
   Twenty times better; but once in special,
In thin array after a pleasant guise,
   When her loose gown from her shoulders did fall,
   And she me caught in her arms long and small;
And therewithal sweetly did me kiss,
And softly said, Dear heart, how like you this?

For the sword outwears its sheath,
    And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
    And love itself have rest.

If you can dream--and not make dreams your master;
   If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
   And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
   Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
   And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
   And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
   And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
   To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
   Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";