(Aetet 18)
His are the generous days that balance
Soul and body. Should he hear the trumpet
Behind the sun that sends its thinning ray
Penetrating to the marrow --
At once one with that cause, he'd throw
Himself across some high far parapet,
Body die to soul down the shear way
Of consummation in the summons.
His also are the days when he should greet
Her who goes walking, looking for a brooch
Under broad leaves at dusk besides the path
-- and sidelong looks at him as though she thought
His smile might hide the gleam she sought ---
He would run up to her and each
Find the lost clasp hid in them both,
Soul live to body where they meet.
Body soul, soul body, seem one breath,
Or to the twined shadows of the sun, his will,
In these, his generous days, to prove
His own true nature only is to give.
Wholly to die, or wholly else to live!
Body to soul, and let the bright cause kill,
Or soul to body, let the blood make love.
Giving is death in life and life in death.
After, of course, will come a time not this
When he'd be taken, stripped, strapped to a wheel
That is a world, and has the power to change
The brooches' gold, the trumpet scarlet blaze
-- The lightning in the bones these generous days --
Into what drives a system, like a fuel.
Then to himself he will feel loathed and strange
Have thougts yet colder than the thing he is.
