# The Poems and Prose Remains of Arthur Hugh Clough/Volume 2/'Blank Misgivings of a Creature moving about in Worlds not realised'

'BLANK MISGIVINGS OF A CREATURE MOVING ABOUT IN WORLDS NOT REALISED.'
I
One-third departed of the mortal span, Carrying on the child into the man, Nothing into reality. Sails rent, And rudder broken,—reason impotent,— Affections all unfixed; so forth I fare On the mid seas unheedingly, so dare To do and to be done by, well content. So was it from the first, so is it yet; Yea, the first kiss that by these lips was set On any human lips, methinks was sin— Sin, cowardice, and falsehood; for the will
Into a deed e’en then advanced, wherein God, unidentified, was thought-of still.
II
For poor Ease’ sake I give away my heart, And for the moment’s sympathy let part My sight and sense of truth, Thy precious boon, My painful earnings, lost, all lost, as soon, Almost, as gained: and though aside I start, Belie Thee daily, hourly,—still Thou art, Art surely as in heaven the sun at noon; How much so e’er I sin, whate’er I do Of evil, still the sky above is blue, The stars look down in beauty as before: It is enough to walk as best we may, To walk, and sighing, dream of that blest day When ill we cannot quell shall be no more.
III
Forgiveness too, or e’er we part, from each, As I do give it. so must I beseech: I owe all much, much more than I can pay; Therefore it is I go; how could I stay Where every look commits me to fresh debt, And to pay little I must borrow yet? Enough of this already, now away! With silent woods and hills untenanted Let me go commune; under thy sweet gloom, O kind maternal Darkness, hide my head: The day may come I yet may re-assume My place, and, these tired limbs recruited, seek The task for which I now am all too weak.
IV
Bearing the liar’s curse upon my head; Letting my weak and sickly heart be fed On food which does the present craving stay, But may be clean-denied me e’en to-day, And tho’ ’twere certain, yet were ought but bread; Letting—for so they say, it seems, I said, And I am all too weak to disobey! Therefore for me sweet Nature’s scenes reveal not Their charm; sweet Music greets me and I feel not; Sweet eyes pass off me uninspired; yea, more, The golden tide of opportunity Flows wafting-in friendships and better,—I Unseeing, listless, pace along the shore.
V
My strange distorted youth, Seeking in vain, in all my store, One feeling based on truth; Amid the maze of petty life A clue whereby to move, A spot whereon in toil and strife To dare to rest and love. So constant as my heart would be, So fickle as it must, ’Twere well for others as for me ’Twere dry as summer dust. Excitements come, and act and speech Flow freely forth; but no, Nor they, nor ought beside can reach The buried world below.
1841
VI
In some strange garden left awhile alone, I pace about the pathways of the world, Plucking light hopes and joys from every stem, With qualms of vague misgiving in my heart That payment at the last will be required, Payment I cannot make, or guilt incurred, And shame to be endured. 1841
VII
I rose, I turned the key, and let them in, First one, anon another, and at length In troops they came; for how could I, who once Had let in one, nor looked him in the face, Show scruples e'er again? So in they came, A noisy band of revellers,—vain hopes, Wild fancies, fitful joys; and there they sit In my heart's holy place, and through the night Carouse, to leave it when the cold grey dawn Gleams from the East, to tell me that the time For watching and for thought bestowed is gone. 1841
VIII
Flies back to bury in its mother's lap His shame and his confusion, so to thee, O Mother Night, come I! within the folds Of thy dark robe hide thou me close; for I So long, so heedless, with external things Have played the liar, that whate'er I see, E'en these white glimmering curtains, yon bright stars, Which to the rest rain comfort down, for me
Smiling those smiles, which I may not return, Or frowning frowns of fierce triumphant malice, As angry claimants or expectants sure Of that I promised and may not perform, Look me in the face! O hide me, Mother Night! 1841
IX
Once more dark heavens above me spread, Upon the windy down I stand, My station whence the circling land Lies mapped and pictured wide below;— Such as it was, such e'en again, Long dreary bank, and breadth of plain By hedge or tree unbroken;—lo, A few grey woods can only show How vain their aid, and in the sense Of one unaltering impotence, Relieving not, meseems enhance The sovereign dulness of the expanse. Yet marks where human hand hath been, Bare house, unsheltered village, space Of ploughed and fenceless tilth between (Such aspect as methinks may be In some half-settled colony), From Nature vindicate the scene; A wide, and yet disheartening view, A melancholy world.
'Tis true, Most true; and yet, like those strange smiles By fervent hope or tender thought From distant happy regions brought,
Which upon some sick bed are seen To glorify a pale worn face With sudden beauty,—so at whiles Lights have descended, hues have been, To clothe with half-celestial grace The bareness of the desert place.
Since so it is, so be it still! Could only thou, my heart, be taught To treasure, and in act fulfil The lesson which the sight has brought; In thine own dull and dreary state To work and patiently to wait: Little thou think'st in thy despair How soon the o'ershaded sun may shine, And e'en the dulling clouds combine To bless with lights and hues divine That region desolate and bare, Those sad and sinful thoughts of thine!
Still doth the coward heart complain; The hour may come, and come in vain; The branch that withered lies and dead No suns can force to lift its head. True!—yet how little thou canst tell How much in thee is ill or well; Nor for thy neighbour nor for thee, Be sure, was life designed to be A draught of dull complacency. One Power too is it, who doth give The food without us, and within The strength that makes it nutritive: He bids the dry bones rise and live,
And e'en in hearts depraved to sin Some sudden, gracious influence, May give the long-lost good again, And wake within the dormant sense And love of good;—for mortal men, So but thou strive, thou soon shalt see Defeat itself is victory.
So be it: yet, O Good and Great, In whom in this bedarkened state I fain am struggling to believe, Let me not ever cease to grieve, Nor lose the consciousness of ill Within me;—and refusing still To recognise in things around What cannot truly there be found, Let me not feel, nor be it true, That, while each daily task I do, I still am giving day by day My precious things within away (Those thou didst give to keep as thine), And casting, do whate'er I may, My heavenly pearls to earthly swine. 1841