Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 126

CXXVI

Weary was I of toil and strife,
And weary of drawing breath;
And still, whatever I did for Life
It went the way to death.

It went adown the dusty road,
Whence there is no recall;
None may bear another's load,
For the load is borne by all.

"Some of the souls escape and fly,
Tho' the grave to us be dumb,
They do not know what it is to die,
For they make the world-to-come.

"And see, of the death of the body of man
Is made the wholesome earth,
The sun will shine and the wind will fan
And flowers be brought to birth.

"There's many a bough that greenlier swings
Where he hath measured his span,
But, tell me, where is the flower that springs
From the death of the soul of man?"

Then was I ware of a little child,
With eyes that I could not see;
For all they were so gentle and mild,
They shook the heart in me.

As he stood beneath the tree of thorn,
Under the dazzling blue,
He was all the men that ever were born,
And all the women too.

The roses twined around his feet,
The birds about him sang,
And all the beasts of the field to greet
Their lord and master sprang.

Of the rotten souls to earth that fell
Is made this awful flower;
And he rules the living, straight from hell,
With the very devil's power.