The Trial By Existence
The Trial by Existence, by Robert Frost.
Even the bravest that are slain Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valour reign Even as on earth in paradise,
And where they sought without the sword Wide fields of asphodel forer
To find that the utmost reward Of daring should be still to dare.
The light of heaven falls whole and white, And is not shattered into dyes.
The light forever is morning light, The hills are verdured pasture-wise.
The angel hosts with freshness go, And seek with laughter what to brave,
And binding all is the hushed snow Of the far-distant breaking wave.
And from a clifftop is proclaimed The gathering of the souls for birth,
The Trial by Existence named, The obscuration upon earth.
And the slant spirits trooping by, In streams and cross and counter-streams,
Can but give ear to that sweet cry For its suggestion of what dreams.
And the more loitering are turned To view once more the sacrifice
Of those who for some good discerned Will gladly give up paradise.
And a white shimmering concourse rolls Toward the throne to witness there
The speeding of devoted souls, Which God makes His a special care.
And none are taken but who will, Having first heard the life read out,
That opens earthward good and ill Beyond the shadow of a doubt.
And very beautifully God limbs, And tenderly life's little dream,
But not extenuates or dims Setting the thing that is supreme,
Nor is there wanting in the press Some spirit to stand simply forth,
Heroic in its nakedness Against the uttermost of earth.
The tale of earth's unhonored things Sounds nobler there than neath the sun,
And the mind whirls and the heart sings, And a shout greets the daring one.
But always God speaks at the end, One thought, in agony of strife,
The bravest would have by for friend The memory that he chose the life.
But the pure fate to which you go Admits no memory of choice,
Or the woe, were not earthly woe, To which you give the ascending voice.
And so the choice must be again, But the last choice is still the same,
And the awe passes wonder then, And hush falls for all acclaim.
And God has taken a flower of gold, And broken it, and used therefrom
The mystic link to bind and hold, Spirit to matter till death come.
Tis of the essence of life here, Though we choose greatly, still to lack,
The lasting memory at all clear, That life has for us on the rack,
Being but what we somehow chose, Thus are we wholly stripped of pride,
In the pain that has but one close, Bearing it crushed and mystified.