Thou art weary, weary, weary,
Thou art weary and far away,
Hear me, gentle spirit, hear me,
Come before the dawn of day.

I hear a small voice from the hill,
The vapour is deadly, pale, and still—
A murmuring sough is on the wood,
And the witching star is red as blood.

And in the cleft of heaven I scan
The giant form of a naked man,
His eye is like the burning brand,
And he holds a sword in his right hand.

All is not well. By dint of spell,
Somewhere between the heaven and hell
There is this night a wild deray,
The spirits have wander'd from their way.

The purple drops shall tinge the moon
As she wanders through the midnight noon;
And the dawning heaven shall all be red
With blood by guilty angels shed.

Be as it will, I have the skill
To work by good or work by ill;
Then here's for pain, and here's for thrall,
And here's for conscience, worst of all.

Another chant, and then, and then,
Spirits shall come or Christian men—
Come from the earth, the air, or the sea,
Great Gil-Moules, I cry to thee!

Sleep'st thou, wakest thou, lord of the wind,
Mount thy steeds and gallop them blind;
And the long-tailed fiery dragon outfly,
The rocket of heaven, the bomb of the sky.

Over the dog-star, over the wain,
Over the cloud, and the rainbow's mane,
Over the mountain, and over the sea,
Haste—haste—haste to me!

Then here's for trouble, and here's for smart,
And here's for the pang that seeks the heart;
Here's for madness, and here's for thrall,
And here's for conscience, the worst of all!

I have a song that few will sing
In honor of all suffering,
A song to which my heart can bring
The homage of believing—
A song the heavy-laden hears
Above the clamor of his fears,
While still he walks with blinding tears,
And drains the cup of grieving.

I ask not why, I only see
How poor is all our potency,
How soon the wise, the strong, the free
Some deadly bane discloses;
While he whose bread is doubly priced,
By whom all gain is sacrificed,
Keeps near to beauty, near to Christ,
And Socrates and Moses.

The captains and the gilded kings,
With all their marshalled underlings,
Are found to be but puny things,
Impermanent and hollow;
While up through terror, blood and dearth,
Poor men accounted little worth,
Still raise the beacon lights of earth
For truth and faith to follow.

So long as life is steeped in wrong,
And nations cry: "How long, how long!"
I look not to the wise and strong
For peace and self-possession;
But right will rise, and mercy shine,
And justice lift her conquering sign
Where lowly people starve and pine
Beneath a world oppression.

O sweet is power, dear is ease,
And beauty cannot fail to please,
But mightier far than all of these
Those chastenings of sorrow
By which alone the heart will dare
To mount beyond a world of care
On visions bright beyond compare
Of better things tomorrow.