Poems by Arthur Hugh Clough

Say Not The Struggle Naught Availeth

SAY not the struggle naught availeth, 

The labour and the wounds are vain, 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 

And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; 

It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd, 

Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 

And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 

Seem here no painful inch to gain, 

Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 

Comes silent, flooding in, the main. 

And not by eastern windows only, 

When daylight comes, comes in the light; 

In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! 

But westward, look, the land is bright! 

Arthur Hugh Clough

The Thread of Truth

Truth is a golden thread, seen here and there 

In small bright specks upon the visible side 

Of our strange being's parti-coloured web. 

How rich the universe! 'Tis a vein of ore 

Emerging now and then on Earth's rude breast, 

But flowing full below. Like islands set 

At distant intervals on Ocean's face, 

We see it on our course; but in the depths 

The mystic colonnade unbroken keeps 

Its faithful way, invisible but sure. 

Oh, if it be so, wherefore do we men 

Pass by so many marks, so little heeding? 

Arthur Hugh Clough