The Desire Of Life

O broken, old, weary desire of life,
Unquenchable flame of desire,
That wakens, like a well-nigh waited fire,
Now in my heart, and springs
Upward on shining wings,
And Stirs rejoicing for the unending strife.
Flame of desire,
Flame of the unquenchable desire of life,
What vehement spirit brings
Hope to my soul that had forgotten hope?
Is life yet waiting me,
That dumbly and disconsolately grope
Among dead things,
Chained living to the corpse of memory?
Bid me not stir
Out of the heavy shadows that impend
Sullenly on my head.
If this be but some mocking messenger,
Not life but fancy sends
To draw me from the places of the dead
To a forgotten sunlight where all ends?
Bid me not Stir,
If all shall be again
As all has been: I have no heart to win
A glorious joy that shall return to pain
Ere I have drunk its sweetness in.
Nay, leave me quite alone,
Life, and the old, aching desire of life,
Apart from peace, apart from Strife,
In this dull apathy
That I have somewhile known
Since dead desire has claimed me for its own.
And yet, and yet,
If this be very life that comes to me,
If this bright voice that cries “Hope and forget!”
Be verily the voice of mine heart,
Wiser than I,
Shall I, that hunger, set the spread feast by,
Or, thirsting, bid the cupbearer depart?
O life, dear enemy,
My soul so dimly understands,
Awakening in its cereclothes among the dead,
Life, that so long hast had thy will of me,
Do with me as thou wilt;
I hold both hands out for the cup,
I hold both hands out famishing for bread;
And shall thy cup be spilt,
And shall the bread crumble out of my hands,
O Life, dear friend, so like an enemy?