HOLD FAST, MY SOUL, UPON THE LEDGING

Hold fast, my soul, upon the ledging,
And do not scourge yourself in dredging;
No doom from heights can slip away.
Not in one flash of winged upbearing,
Nor in the plunge, nor in despairing,
Let heaven’s gaze not mark your way.

Sit down and weep, my soul; ask pardon,
With Adam held before the Garden;
Say—what is grimmer than your tears?
What can be sadder, once love’s taken,
Love without dawn—yet not awaken,
And not to vow to it for years?

Kneel at the brink, and do not hinder,
Still better so than hearts that cinder,
In wormwood and pasque-flower' seeds.
From knees—will you rise again, ever,
Beneath the sky, roofless forever,
will you lift proud head from the weeds?

Lift the dry load of hope that’s fading,
Like dust that clings to sleeves, still shading—
No wind of change can blow it off.
You weep? weep… do tears seem easier?
Or is the storm’s all lightness breezier?
Will your lungs drink it—sharp—and cough?

Your feet withdraw; the brink grows tender,
To seek new halls, new borders, splendor;
And other watchers, strange and new.
When the abyss tugs you then nearer—
Remember what is truly clearer:
One moment’s flight—or life for two.