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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Author Unknown


O FEVERED eyes, with searching strained

Till both the parching globes are pained,

At set of sun is balm for you;

Look up, and bathe them in the blue.

No need to count the coming stars,

Nor watch those wimpled pearly bars

That flush above the west; but follow

In idler mood the idle swallow,

With careless, half-unconscious eye,

Round his great circles on the sky,

Till he, and all things, lose for you

Their being in that depth of blue.

O fevered brain, with searching strained

Till every pulsing nerve is pained,

In tranquil hours is balm for you;

Vex not the thoughts with false and true;

Be still and bathe them in the blue.

To every sad conviction throw

This grim defiance: “Be it so!”

To doubts that will not let you sleep,

This answer: “Wait! the truth will keep.”

Weary, and marred with care and pain

And bruising days, the human brain

Draws wounded inward;—it might be

Some delicate creature of the sea,

That, shuddering, shrinks its lucent dome,

And coils its azure tendrils home,

And folds its filmy curtains tight,

At jarring contact, e’er so light;

But let it float away all free,

And feel the buoyant, supple sea

Among its tinted streamers swell,

Again it spreads its gauzy rings,

And, waving its wan fringes, swings

With rhythmic pulse its crystal bell.

Think out, float out away from where

The pressure of the trembling air

Keeps down to earth the shrunken mind.

Set free the smothered thought, and find

Beyond our world a vaster place,

To thrill and vibrate out through space;

As some auroral banner streams

Up through the night in widening gleams,

And floats and flashes o’er our dreams;

There let the whirling planet fall

Down—down, till but a vanishing ball,

A misty gleam: and dwindled so,

Thyself, thy world, no trace can show;

Too small to have a care or woe

Or wish, apart from that one will

That doth His worlds with music fill.