De Profundis

    the sun,

    Rose up for me h life begun,

    to mark all brighe day

    ith hourly love, is dimmed away—

    And yet my days go on, go on.

    he reigns below, he reigns alone,

    Among ures anywhere

    So, lizard-like, hin her side,

    And every morning h  Good day

    Make each day good, is hushed away,

    No mortal grief deserves t crown.

    t waff, was one

    O supreme Love, chief misery,

    I trust thee while my days go on.

    iteadfast love, is caught away,

    Fair mists of serap and fall

    And cold before my summers done,

    And deaf in Natures general tune,

    And fallen too low for special fear,

    Or rules h him, while days go on?

    ears drop, my days go on.

    ‘to the bone;’

    And tender friends go sighing round,

    ‘ love can ever cure this wound ?

    My days go on, my days go on.

    And yet my days go on, go on.

    And makes all night. O dreams begun,

    Not to be ended! Ended bliss,

    Systems burn out and hrone;

    My days go on, my days go on.

    the rivers overleap

    to its own,

    From off t has grown,

    -bare, -hungry, very poor,

    ed days go on.

    Some cubit-space, and say ‘Behold,

    No gleaning in t plains

    heir loaded wains?

    By anguishe sun,

    ture, the snows be down,

    the bird of June:

    ttle red ree

    erly go on?

    No bird am I, to sing in June,

    And dare not ask an equal boon.

    Good nests and berries red are Natures

    to give ao better creatures, —

    And yet my days go on, go on.

    —A Voice reproves me thereupon,

    till days go out which now go on.

    Only to loose these pilgrim shoon,

    (too early

    Cool deadly touco tired feet.

    I sit and knock at Natures door,

    trongest on t day

    Only to lift turf unmown

    Forgetting he days go on.’

    Only the good.

    I knock and cry, —Undone, undone!

    do? Green anon

    the sward would quicken, overshone

    By skies as blue; and crickets might

    o c

    on,  on.

    From gracious Nature have I won

    Creep in, poor , beneat fold,

    My vacant days go on, go on.

    I ask less kindness to be done, —

    By days t painfully go on?

    More s tures whe drone

    For mine to lean and rest upon,

    Breato moan:

    thunder on.

    Sucy? may I run

    Gods Voice, not Natures! Night and noon

    s upon t hrone

    And listens for tures praise.

    the Day-spring he, whose days go on.

    babble we of days and days?

    And h hope no longer here,

    he reigns above, he reigns alone;

    Around him, changeless amid all,

    Ancient of Days, whose days go on.

    Is ripe for suc is for me,

    he Jealous God. ho mourns

    And, having life in love forgone

    Beneathorns,

    e  struggle nor impugn.

    As a child drops his pebble small

    t,

    As one alone, once not alone,

    And yet my days go on, go on.

    Blasp h despair,

    however darkly days go on.

    For us, —wevers undergone,

    take from my h brown!

    And life t  end in this!

    t rolls forhe sun

    thee

    ernally go on!

    Of bees is sest, and more deep

    t,  w is done,

    Grief may be joy misunderstood;

    I s t none

    Smoot stone,

    evers lost, it first was won;

    tongue wream, could run

    Perhe cup was broken here,

    t  show more clear.

    I praise thee while my days go on.

    I praise thee while my days go on;

    I love thee while my days go on:

    Down some deep well, and  fall

    itied arms and treasure lost,

    I thee while my days go on.

    And tried

    And hrown

    Being and suffering (which are one),

    Is t, —none?

    Smiling—so I. thY DAYS GO ON.