THE Hours passed by, a fleet, confused crowd;
With wafture of blown garments bright as fire, Light, light of foot and laughing, morning-browed, And where they trod the jonquil and the briar Thrilled into jocund life, the dreaming dells Waked to a morrice chime of jostled bells;--They danced! they danced! to piping such as flings The garnered music of a million Springs Into one single, keener ecstasy;--One paused and shouted to my questionings:
"Lo, I am Youth; I bid thee follow me!"
The Hours passed by; they paced, great lords and proud, Crowned on with sunlight, robed in rich attire;
Before their conquering word the brute deed bowed, And Ariel fancies served their large desire;
They spake, and roused the mused soul that dwells In dust, or, smiling, shaped new heavens and hells, Dethroned old gods and made blind beggars kings:
"And what art thou," I cried to one, "that brings His mistress, for a brooch, the Galaxy?"--"I am the plumed Thought that soars and sings:
Lo, I am Song; I bid thee follow me!"
The Hours passed by, with veiled eyes endowed Of dream, and parted lips that scarce suspire, To breathing dusk and arrowy moonlight vowed, South wind and shadowy grove and murmuring lyre;--Swaying they moved, as drows'd of wizard spells Or tranc'd with sight of recent miracles, And yet they trembled, down their folded wings Quivered the hint of sweet withholden things, Ah, bitter-sweet in their intensity!
One paused and said unto my wonderings:
"Lo, I am Love; I bid thee follow me!"
The Hours passed by, through huddled cities loud With witless hate and stale with stinking mire:
So cowled monks might march with bier and shroud Down streets plague-spotted toward some cleans-ing pyre;--Yet, lo! strange lilies bloomed in lightless cells, And passionate spirits burst their clayey shells And sang the stricken hope that bleeds and clings:
Earth's bruised heart beat in the throbbing strings, And joy still struggled through the threnody!
One stern Hour said unto my marvelings:
"Lo, I am Life; I bid thee follow me!"
The Hours passed by, the stumbling hours and cowed, Uncertain, prone to tears and childish ire,--The wavering hours that drift like any cloud At whim of winds or fortunate or dire,--The feeble shapes that any chance expells;
Their wisdom useless, lacking the blood that swells The tensed vein: the hot, swift tide that stings With life. Ah, wise! but naked to the slings Of fate, and plagued of youthful memory!
A cracked voice broke upon my pityings:
"Lo, I am Age; I bid thee follow me!"
Ah, Youth! we dallied by the babbling wells Where April all her lyric secret tells;--Ah, Song! we sped our bold imaginings As far as yon red planet's triple rings;--O Life! O Love! I followed, followed thee!
There waits one word to end my journeyings:
"Lo, I am Death; I bid thee follow me!"
