Edith Wharton

(24 January 1862 – 11 August 1937 / New York City / United States)

A Torchbearer


Great cities rise and have their fall; the brass
That held their glories moulders in its turn.
Hard granite rots like an uprooted weed,
And ever on the palimpsest of earth
Impatient Time rubs out the word he writ.
But one thing makes the years its pedestal,
Springs from the ashes of its pyre, and claps
A skyward wing above its epitaph—
The will of man willing immortal things.

The ages are but baubles hung upon
The thread of some strong lives—and one slight wrist
May lift a century above the dust;
For Time,
The Sisyphean load of little lives,
Becomes the globe and sceptre of the great.
But who are these that, linking hand in hand,
Transmit across the twilight waste of years
The flying brightness of a kindled hour?
Not always, nor alone, the lives that search
How they may snatch a glory out of heaven
Or add a height to Babel; oftener they
That in the still fulfilment of each day’s
Pacific order hold great deeds in leash,
That in the sober sheath of tranquil tasks
Hide the attempered blade of high emprise,
And leap like lightning to the clap of fate.

So greatly gave he, nurturing ‘gainst the call
Of one rare moment all the daily store
Of joy distilled from the acquitted task,
And that deliberate rashness which bespeaks
The pondered action passed into the blood;
So swift to harden purpose into deed
That, with the wind of ruin in his hair,
Soul sprang full-statured from the broken flesh,
And at one stroke he lived the whole of life,
Poured all in one libation to the truth,
A brimming flood whose drops shall overflow
On deserts of the soul long beaten down
By the brute hoof of habit, till they spring
In manifold upheaval to the sun.

Call here no high artificer to raise
His wordy monument—such lives as these
Make death a dull misnomer and its pomp
An empty vesture. Let resounding lives
Re-echo splendidly through high-piled vaults
And make the grave their spokesman—such as he
Are as the hidden streams that, underground,
Sweeten the pastures for the grazing kine,
Or as spring airs that bring through prison bars
The scent of freedom; or a light that burns
Immutably across the shaken seas,
Forevermore by nameless hands renewed,
Where else were darkness and a glutted shore.

Submitted: Tuesday, April 20, 2010

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

What do you think this poem is about?



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (A Torchbearer by Edith Wharton )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

PoemHunter.com Updates

New Poems

  1. Storybook Story, Arno Le Roux
  2. God's Violin, Arno Le Roux
  3. Willow, weep for us, Peter Jay Shippy
  4. Masking War, Arno Le Roux
  5. Wedding Album, Jeannette Heywood
  6. I Can't Believe That You're in Love With.., Peter Jay Shippy
  7. Thatched hut., Gangadharan nair Pulingat..
  8. Cobbled stones, Emmanuel George Cefai
  9. Give me freedom, Emmanuel George Cefai
  10. The stakes are high to-night, Emmanuel George Cefai

Poem of the Day

poet Robert William Service

Just Home and Love! the words are small
Four little letters unto each;
And yet you will not find in all
The wide and gracious range of speech
Two more so tenderly complete:
...... Read complete »

 

Modern Poem

poet Paul Muldoon

 

Trending Poems

  1. Daffodils, William Wordsworth
  2. Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
  3. The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
  4. Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
  5. Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
  6. Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
  7. Invictus, William Ernest Henley
  8. First Day at School, Roger McGough
  9. If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
  10. Home And Love, Robert William Service

Trending Poets

[Hata Bildir]