The Merry Man

I am digging my warm heartTill I find its coldest part;I am digging wide and low,Further than a spade will go,Till that, when the pit is deepAnd large enough, I there may heapAll my present pain and pastJoy, dead things that look aghastBy the daylight: now 't is done.Throw them in, by one and one!I must laugh, at rising sun.

Memories--of fancy's goldenTreasures which my hands have holden,Till the chillness made them ache;Of childhood's hopes that used to wakeIf birds were in a singing strain,And for less cause, sleep again;Of the moss-seat in the woodWhere I trysted solitude;Of the hill-top where the windUsed to follow me behind,Then in sudden rush to blindBoth my glad eyes with my hair,Taken gladly in the snare;Of the climbing up the rocks,Of the playing 'neath the oaksWhich retain beneath them nowOnly shadow of the bough;Of the lying on the grassWhile the clouds did overpass,Only they, so lightly driven,Seeming betwixt me and Heaven;Of the little prayers serene,Murmuring of earth and sin;Of large-leaved philosophyLeaning from my childish knee;Of poetic book sublime,Soul-kissed for the first dear time,Greek or English, ere I knewLife was not a poem too:--Throw them in, by one and one!I must laugh, at rising sun.

--Of the glorious ambitionsYet unquenched by their fruitionsOf the reading out the nights;Of the straining at mad heights;Of achievements, less descriedBy a dear few than magnified;Of praises from the many earnedWhen praise from love was undiscerned;Of the sweet reflecting gladnessSoftened by itself to sadness:--Throw them in, by one and one!I must laugh, at rising sun.

What are these? more, more than these!Throw in dearer memories!--Of voices whereof but to speakMakes mine own all sunk and weak;Of smiles the thought of which is sweepingAll my soul to floods of weeping;Of looks whose absence fain would weighMy looks to the ground for aye;Of clasping hands--ah me, I wringMine, and in a tremble flingDownward, downward all this paining!Partings with the sting remaining,Meetings with a deeper throeSince the joy is ruined so,Changes with a fiery burning,(Shadows upon all the turning,)Thoughts of ... with a storm they came,Them I have not breath to name:Downward, downward be they castIn the pit! and now at lastMy work beneath the moon is done,And I shall laugh, at rising sun.

But let me pause or ere I coverAll my treasures darkly over:I will speak not in thine ears,Only tell my beaded tearsSilently, most silently.When the last is calmly told,Let that same moist rosaryWith the rest sepulchred be,Finished now! The darksome mouldSealeth up the darksome pit.I will lay no stone on it,Grasses I will sow instead,Fit for Queen Titania's tread;Flowers, encoloured with the sun,And ~ai ai~ written upon none;Thus, whenever saileth byThe Lady World of dainty eye,Not a grief shall here remain,Silken shoon to damp or stain:And while she lisps, "I have not seenAny place more smooth and clean" ...Here she cometh!--Ha, ha!--whoLaughs as loud as I can do?