Page:Poems (IA poemslowell00lowe).pdf/101
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PROMETHEUS.
83
To me, in mine eternal agony,But as the shadows of dumb summer-clouds,Which I have watched so often darkening o'erThe vast Sarmatian plain, league-wide at first,But, with still swiftness, lessening on and onTill cloud and shadow meet and mingle whereThe gray horizon fades into the sky,Far, far to northward. Yes, for ages yetMust I lie here upon my altar luge,A sacrifice for man. Sorrow will be,As it hath been, his portion; endless doom,While the immortal with the mortal linkedDreams of its wings and pines for what it dreams,With upward yearn unceasing. Better so:For wisdom is meek sorrow's patient child,And empire over self, and all the deepStrong charities that make men seem like gods;And love, that makes them be gods, from her breastsSucks in the milk that makes mankind one blood.Good never comes unmixed, or so it seems,Having two faces, as some imagesAre carved, of foolish gods; one face is ill;