Laura Riding

Nor Is It Written


Nor is it written that you may not grieve.

There is no rule of joy, long may you dwell

Not smiling yet in that last pain,

On that last supper of the heart.

It is not written that you must take joy

Because not thus again shall you sit down

To ply the mingled banquet

Which the deep larder of illusion shed

Like myth in time grown not astonishing.

Lean to the cloth awhile, and yet awhile,

And even may your eyes caress

Proudly the used abundance.

It is not written in what heart

You may not pass from magic plenty

Into the straitened nowadays.

To each is given secrecy of heart,

To make himself what heart he please

In stirring up from that fond table

To sit him down at this sharp meal.

It shall not here be asked of him

'What thinks your heart?'

Long may you sorely to yourself upbraid

This truth unwild, this only-bread.

It is not counted what large passions

Your heart in ancient private keeps alive.

To each is given what defeat he will.


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