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Robert Laurence Binyon - AdversariesRobert Laurence Binyon - Adversaries
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Who are these that meet At random in the street? Adversaries! Yet they Make no sign nor stay. Neither he nor she Knows what those Powers be That bodied in them go Among the peopled flow, One toward the dusk and one Toward the Western sun. Secret eyes turn to her, And bosoms throb astir, As if a perfume blew And made the evening new. Lissom with budding breast, She steps toward the bright West, An airy--footed shape! Above the neck`s young nape Springs wonderful her hair. The round throat lifts in air The flower that is her head. Her lips are Peril`s red; Her eyes a shy surprise, Shedding soft cruelties. Of what will was she wrought, Vivid, without a thought? Fragrance of all that`s young And delicately sprung Is round her like a lure Voluptuously pure;-- Eternal soul of sense, The moment`s quintessence! Of what will was she made, With those fine lashes laid Upon her bloom? She comes From the wild Earth, that hums With summer in the mead, Glutting the flower--cups` greed Of sunlight; ill to tame As Hunger, Thirst or Flame. But he that`s striding East Regards not her the least. His thought is far away, Circling the end of day. Though young, the restless mind, Moulding the flesh, has signed His features; and his gaze, Absented in retreat From all this human street, Holds musings that begin To sharpen cheek and chin. What speculation now Beneath that ardent brow Braves what it sees?--Among Blind worlds, this planet swung Like an old toy, a spark In the gigantic dark, A mote of dust alive, Where millions meanly strive--     For what? If Thought alone Keeps man upon his throne Of courage, to outface The Gorgon mask of Space, What wills it with this house Of flesh, that loves to drowse And take the hours of sense For sweetness and defence,-- Of flesh that is but clay For Thought to sift away Like powder of idle sand Within the crumbling hand? Two Cruelties are these, And two Defiances. Yet though they be apart As East and West, the heart Of man is twined in each. Of them he makes his speech, His torment and delight, His songs, his tears, his height Of wisdom, his despair. Though both his being tear, He knows not which to choose Nor which he`d harder lose.
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