When on my soul in nakedness His swift, avertless hand did press, Then I stood still, nor cried aloud, Nor murmured low in ashes bowed; And, since my woe is utterless, To supreme quiet I am vowed; Afar from me be moan and tears,— I shall go softly all my years. Whenso my quick, light-sandaled feet Bring me where Joys and Pleasures meet, I mingle with their throng at will; They know me not an alien still, Since neither words nor ways unsweet Of storëd bitterness I spill; Youth shuns me not, nor gladness fears,— For I go softly all my years. Whenso I come where Griefs convene, And in my ear their voice is keen, They know me not, as on I glide, That with Arch Sorrow I abide. They haggard are, and drooped of mien, And round their brows have cypress tied: Such shows I leave to light Grief’s peers,— I shall go softly all my years. Yea, softly! heart of hearts unknown. Silence hath speech that passeth moan, More piercing-keen than breathëd cries To such as heed, made sorrow-wise. But save this voice without a tone, That runs before me to the skies, And rings above thy ringing spheres, Lord, I go softly all my years!
The Quiet Pilgrim
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