Aspiration Poem by Emily Pfeiffer

I.

THE callow eagle in its downy nest,
Betwixt the blue above and blue beneath,
Or wrapped in swirling cloud or misty wreath,
Drops its weak wings and folds itself to rest.
But hardly is it settled ere its breast
Is pierced with anguish, which, in face of death,
Drives it to mount on the unquiet breath
Of viewless winds, upon an unknown quest.

Thou art a callow eagle, O my soul!
Forth driven from the home of thy content
And made to stretch t'wards some far distant goal
Of Glory, on thine upward journey sent
By warning of the Spirit, ere the whole
Frame of thy trust from under thee be rent.


II.

Free Spirit striving in my human breast!
I see thine image when above her young
The parent eagle, hovering, has flung
Her shadow 'twixt the sunshine and her nest.
I see thee dark, but know thy gleaming crest
Burns in the daybreak, and I have no tongue
To speak a joy no heart hath fitly sung,—
The awful joy of thy divine unrest.

O mighty blades of shadow-spreading wings
Unfurled above me! will ye bear me up
When I, in mounting with ye t'wards the springs
Of light, from lack of strength or faith shall drop?
Will ye not leave me till in loftier rings
Of flight t'wards God I need no earthlier prop?


III.

All creatures eagle-born and eagle-taught,
Whose nests are set upon the giddy height,
Who fear the dread abyss, but love the light,
And sheer through love and pain to trust are brought;
How is it when ye, too, are overwrought,
Seized with love-madness, and in upward flight
Quit the sure world to hold the sun in sight?
How fares it with ye when, no sole ray caught
Or kept of him, ye drop again to earth?
What are your lives the better of the sun?
And if, as well may be, you should give birth
To others soaring higher, what were won?
No answer,—but wide wings and hearts aglow;
The sun is there, he draws them, and they go!


IV.

O. Thou, the Sun, that rising on the world
Of human souls, hast waxed to many a noon,
And waned in many a twilight, and gone down
In frequent darkness—like a meteor hurled
From heaven,—how oft hath night's black flag unfurled,
Mocked at our hopes, and signalled Thy defeat?
Yet when Thou camest with new light and heat,
We rose to meet Thee fresh, and dew-impearled.

Help those faint hearts that tremble in the gloom,
Unknowing that the inmost work of life
Is shy, and needs the darkness as a womb
That with the weight of ripening seed is rife.
So we but know Thee living, through the night
Waiting in patience, we shall wax in might.