De Profundis
I
The
face,
which,
duly
as
the
sun,
Rose
up
for
me
with
life
begun,
To
mark
all
bright
hours
of
the
day
With
hourly
love,
is
dimmed
away—
And
yet
my
days
go
on,
go
on.
II
The
tongue
which,
like
a
stream,
could
run
Smooth
music
from
the
roughest
stone,
And
every
morning
with
'
Good
day'
Make
each
day
good,
is
hushed
away,
And
yet
my
days
go
on,
go
on.
III
The
heart
which,
like
a
staff,
was
one
For
mine
to
lean
and
rest
upon,
The
strongest
on
the
longest
day
With
steadfast
love,
is
caught
away,
And
yet
my
days
go
on,
go
on.
IV
And
cold
before
my
summer's
done,
And
deaf
in
Nature's
general
tune,
And
fallen
too
low
for
special
fear,
And
here,
with
hope
no
longer
here,
While
the
tears
drop,
my
days
go
on.
V
The
world
goes
whispering
to
its
own,
‘This
anguish
pierces
to
the
bone;’
And
tender
friends
go
sighing
round,
‘What
love
can
ever
cure
this
wound
?'
My
days
go
on,
my
days
go
on.
VI
The
past
rolls
forward
on
the
sun
And
makes
all
night.
O
dreams
begun,
Not
to
be
ended!
Ended
bliss,
And
life
that
will
not
end
in
this!
My
days
go
on,
my
days
go
on.
VII
Breath
freezes
on
my
lips
to
moan:
As
one
alone,
once
not
alone,
I
sit
and
knock
at
Nature's
door,
Heart-bare,
heart-hungry,
very
poor,
Whose
desolated
days
go
on.
VIII
I
knock
and
cry,
—Undone,
undone!
Is
there
no
help,
no
comfort,
—none?
No
gleaning
in
the
wide
wheat
plains
Where
others
drive
their
loaded
wains?
My
vacant
days
go
on,
go
on.
IX
This
Nature,
though
the
snows
be
down,
Thinks
kindly
of
the
bird
of
June:
The
little
red
hip
on
the
tree
Is
ripe
for
such.
What
is
for
me,
Whose
days
so
winterly
go
on?
X
No
bird
am
I,
to
sing
in
June,
And
dare
not
ask
an
equal
boon.
Good
nests
and
berries
red
are
Nature's
To
give
away
to
better
creatures,
—
And
yet
my
days
go
on,
go
on.
XI
I
ask
less
kindness
to
be
done,
—
Only
to
loose
these
pilgrim
shoon,
(Too
early
worn
and
grimed)
with
sweet
Cool
deadly
touch
to
these
tired
feet.
Till
days
go
out
which
now
go
on.
XII
Only
to
lift
the
turf
unmown
From
off
the
earth
where
it
has
grown,
Some
cubit-space,
and
say
‘Behold,
Creep
in,
poor
Heart,
beneath
that
fold,
Forgetting
how
the
days
go
on.’
XIII
What
harm
would
that
do?
Green
anon
The
sward
would
quicken,
overshone
By
skies
as
blue;
and
crickets
might
Have
leave
to
chirp
there
day
and
night
While
my
new
rest
went
on,
went
on.
XIV
From
gracious
Nature
have
I
won
Such
liberal
bounty?
may
I
run
So,
lizard-like,
within
her
side,
And
there
be
safe,
who
now
am
tried
By
days
that
painfully
go
on?
XV
—A
Voice
reproves
me
thereupon,
More
sweet
than
Nature's
when
the
drone
Of
bees
is
sweetest,
and
more
deep
Than
when
the
rivers
overleap
The
shuddering
pines,
and
thunder
on.
XVI
God's
Voice,
not
Nature's!
Night
and
noon
He
sits
upon
the
great
white
throne
And
listens
for
the
creatures'
praise.
What
babble
we
of
days
and
days?
The
Day-spring
He,
whose
days
go
on.
XVII
He
reigns
above,
He
reigns
alone;
Systems
burn
out
and
have
his
throne;
Fair
mists
of
seraphs
melt
and
fall
Around
Him,
changeless
amid
all,
Ancient
of
Days,
whose
days
go
on.
XVIII
He
reigns
below,
He
reigns
alone,
And,
having
life
in
love
forgone
Beneath
the
crown
of
sovran
thorns,
He
reigns
the
Jealous
God.
Who
mourns
Or
rules
with
Him,
while
days
go
on?
XIX
By
anguish
which
made
pale
the
sun,
I
hear
Him
charge
his
saints
that
none
Among
his
creatures
anywhere
Blaspheme
against
Him
with
despair,
However
darkly
days
go
on.
XX
Take
from
my
head
the
thorn-wreath
brown!
No
mortal
grief
deserves
that
crown.
O
supreme
Love,
chief
misery,
The
sharp
regalia
are
for
Thee
Whose
days
eternally
go
on!
XXI
For
us,
—whatever's
undergone,
Thou
knowest,
willest
what
is
done,
Grief
may
be
joy
misunderstood;
Only
the
Good
discerns
the
good.
I
trust
Thee
while
my
days
go
on.
XXII
Whatever's
lost,
it
first
was
won;
We
will
not
struggle
nor
impugn.
Perhaps
the
cup
was
broken
here,
That
Heaven's
new
wine
might
show
more
clear.
I
praise
Thee
while
my
days
go
on.
XXIII
I
praise
Thee
while
my
days
go
on;
I
love
Thee
while
my
days
go
on:
Through
dark
and
dearth,
through
fire
and
frost,
With
emptied
arms
and
treasure
lost,
I
thank
Thee
while
my
days
go
on.
XXIV
And
having
in
thy
life-depth
thrown
Being
and
suffering
(which
are
one),
As
a
child
drops
his
pebble
small
Down
some
deep
well,
and
hears
it
fall
Smiling—so
I.
THY
DAYS
GO
ON.
