Improvisation on an Old Song
(The refrain is quoted by Edward Fitzgerald in
one of his letters)
I
Growing, growing, all the glory going;
Flashing out of fire and light, burning to a husk,
All the world’s a-dying and failing in the dusk—
_Growing, growing, all the glory going._
Rust is on the door-latch, ashes at the root,
Dry rot in the ridge-pole, canker in the fruit;
_Growing, growing, all the glory going._
Plot, ye subtle statesmen,—a trace of melted wax;
Bind, ye haughty prelates,—a thread of ravelled flax;
_Growing, growing, all the glory going._
March, ye mighty captains,—an eddy in the dust;
Rave, ye furious lovers,—a stain of crimson rust;
_Growing, growing, all the glory going._
Pictures, poems, music—their essential soul,
Idle as dry roses in a silver bowl;
_Growing, growing, all the glory going._
London is a hearsay, Paris but a myth,
Rome a wand of sweet-flag withered to the pith;
_Growing, growing, all the glory going._
Palsy shakes the planets, frost has chilled the sun,
In a crushing silence the All is dead and done.
_Growing, growing, all the glory going._
II
Going, going, all the glory growing,
See it stir and flutter; that is singing, hark!
Singing in the caverns of the primal dark.
_Going, going, all the glory growing._
What is in the making, what immortal plan
Draws to its unfolding? ’Tis the Soul of man.
_Going, going, all the glory growing._
See it mount and hover, singing as it goes,
Battling with the darkness, nourished by its woes;
_Going, going, all the glory growing._
The bale-fires of midnight glaring in its eyes,
Past the phantom shadows see it rush and rise;
_Going, going, all the glory growing._
The supernal morning on its dewy wings,
Soaring and scorning the lust of earthy things;
_Going, going, all the glory growing._
The beatific noontide on its eager breast
Springing and singing to its halcyon rest;
_Going, going, all the glory growing._
In its starry vesture not a vestige of the sod,
Winging still and singing to the heart of God.
_Going, going, all the glory growing._
