And  I  am  such  a  stone —
Bring  it  back,  bring  it  back  !

It  is  better  to  groan
With  my  old,  old  load

Than  to  search  within,
And  find  nothing  there

But  folly  and  sin.
O,  I  cannot  bear

This  empty  cup :
If  it  must  be  with  gall,

Fill  it  up  !  fill  it  up !
Fill  my  soul,  fill  my  soul !

And  I  will  bless
The  hand  that  filleth

Mine  emptiness.
670  PAIN


PAIN

The  man  that  hath  great  griefs  I  pity  not ;
'Tis  something  to  be  great
In  any  wise,  and  hint  the  larger  state,

Though  but  in  shadow  of  a  shade,  God  wot !

Moreover,  while  we  wait  the  possible.
This  man  has  touched  the  fact.
And  probed  till  he  has  felt  the  core,  where,  packed
In  pulpy  folds,  resides  the  ironic  ill.
And  while  we  others  sip  the  obvious  sweet —

Lip-licking  after-taste

Of  glutinous  rind,  lo !  this  man  hath  made  haste,
And  pressed  the  sting  that  holds  the  central  seat.
For  thus  it  is  God  stings  us  into  life.
Provoking  actual  souls

From  bodily  systems,  giving  us  the  poles
That  are  His  own,  not  merely  balanced  strife.
Nay,  the  great  passions  are  His  veriest  thought.
Which  whoso  can  absorb,

Nor,  querulous  halting,  violate  their  orb.
In  him  the  mind  of  God  is  fullest  wrought.
Thrice  happy  such  an  one !    Far  other  he

Who  dallies  on  the  edge

Of  the  great  vortex,  clinging  to  a  sedge
Of  patent  good,  a  timorous  Manichee  ;

Who  takes  the  impact  of  a  long-breathed  force,

And  fritters  it  away

In  eddies  of  disgust,  that  else  might  stay
His  nerveless  heart,  and  fix  it  to  the  course.
