I am digging my warm heart Till I find its coldest part; I am digging wide and low, Further than a spade will go,
Till that, when the pit is deep And large enough, I there may heap All my present pain and past Joy, dead things that look aghast
By the daylight: now‘ t is done. Throw them in, by one and one! I must laugh, at rising sun. Memories — of fancy's golden
Treasures which my hands have holden, Till the chillness made them ache; Of childhood's hopes that used to wake If birds were in a singing strain,
And for less cause, sleep again; Of the moss-seat in the wood Where I trysted solitude; Of the hill-top where the wind
Used to follow me behind, Then in sudden rush to blind Both my glad eyes with my hair, Taken gladly in the snare;
Of the climbing up the rocks, Of the playing‘ neath the oaks Which retain beneath them now Only shadow of the bough;
Of the lying on the grass While 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 philosophy Leaning from my childish knee;
Of poetic book sublime, Soul-kissed for the first dear time, Greek or English, ere I knew Life was not a poem too:—
Throw them in, by one and one! I must laugh, at rising sun. — Of the glorious ambitions Yet unquenched by their fruitions
Of the reading out the nights; Of the straining at mad heights; Of achievements, less descried By a dear few than magnified;
Of praises from the many earned When praise from love was undiscerned; Of the sweet reflecting gladness Softened 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 speak Makes mine own all sunk and weak; Of smiles the thought of which is sweeping All my soul to floods of weeping;
Of looks whose absence fain would weigh My looks to the ground for aye; Of clasping hands — ah me, I wring Mine, and in a tremble fling
Downward, downward all this paining! Partings with the sting remaining, Meetings with a deeper throe Since 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 cast In the pit! and now at last My work beneath the moon is done, And I shall laugh, at rising sun.
But let me pause or ere I cover All my treasures darkly over: I will speak not in thine ears, Only tell my beaded tears
Silently, most silently. When the last is calmly told, Let that same moist rosary With the rest sepulchred be,
Finished now! The darksome mould Sealeth 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 by
The Lady World of dainty eye, Not a grief shall here remain, Silken shoon to damp or stain: And while she lisps, “I have not seen
Any place more smooth and clean”... Here she cometh!— Ha, ha!— who Laughs as loud as I can do?
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