I am, I am undying
Apart of pain and suff’r’ng
So sick of songs and sorrow
So tomorrow cannot sell my soul.
If deepest bitter can only bring dawn;
How, then, the birds above
Do so carry on!
But in the darkest fire, in the shadows
And fallows of winter,
The salt, so bitter, will yield as honey;
''''''''''' For desire must wax or wan with pain—
Begun by death, by death undone
Can only cry with joy what’s won;
And birth—‘tis burned out of the strain.
So if souls are great dawns of universe,
And if crowns sweat glory in gouts of mirths,
Then I, undying, will wish to fly:
How quick in breath! And so, as I
Seek it–that horr’r, that beauty of what may be,
No heart can stop the beating of passion
Nor start the sea of eternity.
Take what care and what tears may teach,
Find this Crown, this Life–
Reach it! O reach, O reach.