There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden streetIn the City as the sun sinks low;And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweetAnd fulfilled it with the sunset glow;And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the painThat surround the singing organ like a large eternal light;And they've given it a glory and a part to play againIn the Symphony that rules the day and night.And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance,And trolling out a fond familiar tune,And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France,And now it's prattling softly to the moon,And all around the organ there's a sea without a shoreOf human joys and wonders and regrets;To remember and to recompense the music evermoreFor what the cold machinery forgets....Yes; as the music changes,Like a prismatic glass,It takes the light and rangesThrough all the moods that pass;Dissects the common carnivalOf passions and regrets,And gives the world a glimpse of allThe colours it forgets.And thereLa TraviatasighsAnother sadder song;And thereIl TrovatorecriesA tale of deeper wrong;And bolder knights to battle goWith sword and shield and lance,Than ever here on earth belowHave whirled into—a dance—!Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume,The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!)And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of skyThe cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.The Dorian nightingale is rare and yet they say you'll hear him thereAt Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long hallooAnd golden-eyedtu-whit, tu-whooof owls that ogle London.For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heardAt Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are outYou'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorussing for London:—Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street,In the City as the sun sinks low;And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feetMarking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat,And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never meet,Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat,In the land where the dead dreams go.Verdi, Verdi, when you wroteIl Trovatoredid you dreamOf the City when the sun sinks low,Of the organ and the monkey and the many-coloured streamOn the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seemTo be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleamAsA che la morteparodies the world's eternal themeAnd pulses with the sunset-glow.There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stoneIn the City as the sun sinks low;There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own,There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone.And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known:They are crammed and jammed in busses and—they're each of them aloneIn the land where the dead dreams go.There's a very modish woman and her smile is very blandIn the City as the sun sinks low;And her hansom jingles onward, but her little jewelled handIs clenched a little tighter and she cannot understandWhat she wants or why she wanders to that undiscovered land,For the parties there are not at all the sort of thing she planned,In the land where the dead dreams go.There's a rowing man that listens and his heart is crying outIn the City as the sun sinks low;For the barge, the eight, the Isis, and the coach's whoop and shout,For the minute-gun, the counting and the long dishevelled rout,For the howl along the tow-path and a fate that's still in doubt,For a roughened oar to handle and a race to think aboutIn the land where the dead dreams go.There's a labourer that listens to the voices of the deadIn the City as the sun sinks low;And his hand begins to tremble and his face to smoulder redAs he sees a loafer watching him and—there he turns his headAnd stares into the sunset where his April love is fled,For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is ledThrough the land where the dead dreams go.There's an old and haggard demi-rep, it's ringing in her ears,In the City as the sun sinks low;With the wild and empty sorrow of the love that blights and sears,Oh, and if she hurries onward, then be sure, be sure she hears,Hears and bears the bitter burden of the unforgotten years,And her laugh's a little harsher and her eyes are brimmed with tearsFor the land where the dead dreams go.There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden streetIn the City as the sun sinks low;Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweetJust as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meetMellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feetAre marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheatIn the land where the dead dreams go.So it's Jeremiah, Jeremiah,What have you to sayWhen you meet the garland girlsTripping on their way?All around my gala hatI wear a wreath of roses(A long and lonely year it isI've waited for the May!)If any one should ask you,The reason why I wear it is—My own love, my true loveIs coming home to-day.And it's buy a bunch of violets for the lady(It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!)Buy a bunch of violets for the ladyWhile the sky burns blue above:On the other side the street you'll find it shady(It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!)But buy a bunch of violets for the lady,And tell her she's your own true love.There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden streetIn the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow;And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweetAnd enriched it with the harmonies that make a song completeIn the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet,As it dies into the sunset-glow;And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the painThat surround the singing organ like a large eternal light,And they've given it a glory and a part to play againIn the Symphony that rules the day and night.And there, as the music changes,The song runs round again.Once more it turns and rangesThrough all its joy and pain,Dissects the common carnivalOf passions and regrets;And the wheeling world remembers allThe wheeling song forgets.Once moreLa TraviatasighsAnother sadder song:Once moreIl TrovatorecriesA tale of deeper wrong;Once more the knights to battle goWith sword and shield and lanceTill once, once more, the shattered foeHas whirled into—a dance!Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden streetIn the City as the sun sinks low;And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweetAnd fulfilled it with the sunset glow;And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the painThat surround the singing organ like a large eternal light;And they've given it a glory and a part to play againIn the Symphony that rules the day and night.
And now it's marching onward through the realms of old romance,And trolling out a fond familiar tune,And now it's roaring cannon down to fight the King of France,And now it's prattling softly to the moon,And all around the organ there's a sea without a shoreOf human joys and wonders and regrets;To remember and to recompense the music evermoreFor what the cold machinery forgets....
Yes; as the music changes,Like a prismatic glass,It takes the light and rangesThrough all the moods that pass;Dissects the common carnivalOf passions and regrets,And gives the world a glimpse of allThe colours it forgets.
And thereLa TraviatasighsAnother sadder song;And thereIl TrovatorecriesA tale of deeper wrong;And bolder knights to battle goWith sword and shield and lance,Than ever here on earth belowHave whirled into—a dance—!
Go down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;Go down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume,The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!)And there they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of skyThe cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London.
The Dorian nightingale is rare and yet they say you'll hear him thereAt Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)The linnet and the throstle, too, and after dark the long hallooAnd golden-eyedtu-whit, tu-whooof owls that ogle London.
For Noah hardly knew a bird of any kind that isn't heardAt Kew, at Kew in lilac-time (and oh, so near to London!)And when the rose begins to pout and all the chestnut spires are outYou'll hear the rest without a doubt, all chorussing for London:—
Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
And then the troubadour begins to thrill the golden street,In the City as the sun sinks low;And in all the gaudy busses there are scores of weary feetMarking time, sweet time, with a dull mechanic beat,And a thousand hearts are plunging to a love they'll never meet,Through the meadows of the sunset, through the poppies and the wheat,In the land where the dead dreams go.
Verdi, Verdi, when you wroteIl Trovatoredid you dreamOf the City when the sun sinks low,Of the organ and the monkey and the many-coloured streamOn the Piccadilly pavement, of the myriad eyes that seemTo be litten for a moment with a wild Italian gleamAsA che la morteparodies the world's eternal themeAnd pulses with the sunset-glow.
There's a thief, perhaps, that listens with a face of frozen stoneIn the City as the sun sinks low;There's a portly man of business with a balance of his own,There's a clerk and there's a butcher of a soft reposeful tone.And they're all of them returning to the heavens they have known:They are crammed and jammed in busses and—they're each of them aloneIn the land where the dead dreams go.
There's a very modish woman and her smile is very blandIn the City as the sun sinks low;And her hansom jingles onward, but her little jewelled handIs clenched a little tighter and she cannot understandWhat she wants or why she wanders to that undiscovered land,For the parties there are not at all the sort of thing she planned,In the land where the dead dreams go.
There's a rowing man that listens and his heart is crying outIn the City as the sun sinks low;For the barge, the eight, the Isis, and the coach's whoop and shout,For the minute-gun, the counting and the long dishevelled rout,For the howl along the tow-path and a fate that's still in doubt,For a roughened oar to handle and a race to think aboutIn the land where the dead dreams go.
There's a labourer that listens to the voices of the deadIn the City as the sun sinks low;And his hand begins to tremble and his face to smoulder redAs he sees a loafer watching him and—there he turns his headAnd stares into the sunset where his April love is fled,For he hears her softly singing and his lonely soul is ledThrough the land where the dead dreams go.
There's an old and haggard demi-rep, it's ringing in her ears,In the City as the sun sinks low;With the wild and empty sorrow of the love that blights and sears,Oh, and if she hurries onward, then be sure, be sure she hears,Hears and bears the bitter burden of the unforgotten years,And her laugh's a little harsher and her eyes are brimmed with tearsFor the land where the dead dreams go.
There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden streetIn the City as the sun sinks low;Though the music's only Verdi there's a world to make it sweetJust as yonder yellow sunset where the earth and heaven meetMellows all the sooty City! Hark, a hundred thousand feetAre marching on to glory through the poppies and the wheatIn the land where the dead dreams go.
So it's Jeremiah, Jeremiah,What have you to sayWhen you meet the garland girlsTripping on their way?
All around my gala hatI wear a wreath of roses(A long and lonely year it isI've waited for the May!)If any one should ask you,The reason why I wear it is—My own love, my true loveIs coming home to-day.
And it's buy a bunch of violets for the lady(It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!)Buy a bunch of violets for the ladyWhile the sky burns blue above:
On the other side the street you'll find it shady(It's lilac-time in London; it's lilac-time in London!)But buy a bunch of violets for the lady,And tell her she's your own true love.
There's a barrel-organ carolling across a golden streetIn the City as the sun sinks glittering and slow;And the music's not immortal; but the world has made it sweetAnd enriched it with the harmonies that make a song completeIn the deeper heavens of music where the night and morning meet,As it dies into the sunset-glow;And it pulses through the pleasures of the City and the painThat surround the singing organ like a large eternal light,And they've given it a glory and a part to play againIn the Symphony that rules the day and night.
And there, as the music changes,The song runs round again.Once more it turns and rangesThrough all its joy and pain,Dissects the common carnivalOf passions and regrets;And the wheeling world remembers allThe wheeling song forgets.
Once moreLa TraviatasighsAnother sadder song:Once moreIl TrovatorecriesA tale of deeper wrong;Once more the knights to battle goWith sword and shield and lanceTill once, once more, the shattered foeHas whirled into—a dance!
Come down to Kew in lilac-time, in lilac-time, in lilac-time;Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)And you shall wander hand in hand with love in summer's wonderland;Come down to Kew in lilac-time (it isn't far from London!)
Sandalphon, whose white wings to heaven upbearThe weight of human prayer,Stood silent in the still eternal LightOf God, one dreadful night.His wings were clogged with blood and foul with mire,His body seared with fire."Hast thou no word for Me?" the Master said.The angel sank his head:"Word from the nations of the East and West,"He moaned, "that blood is best.The patriot prayers of either half of earth,Hear Thou, and judge their worth.Out of the obscene seas of slaughter, hear,First, the first nation's prayer:'O God, deliver Thy people. Let Thy swordDestroy our enemies, Lord!'"Pure as the first, as passionate in trustThat their own cause is just;Puppets as fond in those dark hands of greed;As fervent in their creed;As blindly moved, as utterly betrayed,As urgent for Thine aid;Out of the obscene seas of slaughter, hearThe second nation's prayer:'O God, deliver Thy people. Let Thy swordDestroy our enemies, Lord.'"Over their slaughtered children, one great cryFrom either enemy!From either host, thigh-deep in filth and shame,One prayer, one and the same;Out of the obscene seas of slaughter, hear,From East and West, one prayer:'O God, deliver Thy people. Let Thy swordDestroy our enemies, Lord.'"Then, on the Cross of His creative pain,God bowed His head again.Then, East and West, over all seas and lands,Out-stretched His piercèd hands."And yet," Sandalphon whispered, "men denyThe Eternal Calvary."
Sandalphon, whose white wings to heaven upbearThe weight of human prayer,Stood silent in the still eternal LightOf God, one dreadful night.His wings were clogged with blood and foul with mire,His body seared with fire."Hast thou no word for Me?" the Master said.The angel sank his head:
"Word from the nations of the East and West,"He moaned, "that blood is best.The patriot prayers of either half of earth,Hear Thou, and judge their worth.Out of the obscene seas of slaughter, hear,First, the first nation's prayer:'O God, deliver Thy people. Let Thy swordDestroy our enemies, Lord!'
"Pure as the first, as passionate in trustThat their own cause is just;Puppets as fond in those dark hands of greed;As fervent in their creed;As blindly moved, as utterly betrayed,As urgent for Thine aid;Out of the obscene seas of slaughter, hearThe second nation's prayer:'O God, deliver Thy people. Let Thy swordDestroy our enemies, Lord.'
"Over their slaughtered children, one great cryFrom either enemy!From either host, thigh-deep in filth and shame,One prayer, one and the same;Out of the obscene seas of slaughter, hear,From East and West, one prayer:'O God, deliver Thy people. Let Thy swordDestroy our enemies, Lord.'"
Then, on the Cross of His creative pain,God bowed His head again.Then, East and West, over all seas and lands,Out-stretched His piercèd hands."And yet," Sandalphon whispered, "men denyThe Eternal Calvary."
IIn the beginning?—Slowly grope we backAlong the narrowing track,Back to the deserts of the world's pale prime,The mire, the clay, the slime;And then ... what then? Surely to something less;Back, back, to Nothingness!IIYou dare not halt upon that dwindling way!There is no gulf to stayYour footsteps to the last. Go back you must!Far, far below the dust,Descend, descend! Grade by dissolving grade,We follow, unafraid!Dissolve, dissolve this moving world of menInto thin air—and then?IIIO pioneers, O warriors of the Light,In that abysmal night,Will you have courage, then, to rise and tellEarth of this miracle?Will you have courage, then, to bow the head,And say, when all is said—"Out of this Nothingness arose our thought!This blank abysmal NoughtWoke, and brought forth that lighted City street,Those towers, that armoured fleet?" ...IVWhen you have seen those vacant primal skiesBeyond the centuries.Watched the pale mists across their darkness flow,As in a lantern-show,Weaving, by merest "chance," out of thin air,Pageants of praise and prayer;Watched the great hills like clouds arise and set,And one—named Olivet;When you have seen, as a shadow passing away,One child clasp hands and pray;When you have seen emerge from that dark mireOne martyr, ringed with fire;Or, from that Nothingness, by special grace,One woman's love-lit face, ...VWill you have courage, then, to front that law(From which your sophists drawTheir only right to flout one human creed)That nothing can proceed—Not even thought, not even love—from lessThan its own nothingness?The law is yours! But dare you waive your pride,And kneel where you denied?The law is yours! Dare you re-kindle, then,One faith for faithless men,And say you found, on that dark road you trod,In the beginning—GOD?
I
In the beginning?—Slowly grope we backAlong the narrowing track,Back to the deserts of the world's pale prime,The mire, the clay, the slime;And then ... what then? Surely to something less;Back, back, to Nothingness!
II
You dare not halt upon that dwindling way!There is no gulf to stayYour footsteps to the last. Go back you must!Far, far below the dust,Descend, descend! Grade by dissolving grade,We follow, unafraid!Dissolve, dissolve this moving world of menInto thin air—and then?
III
O pioneers, O warriors of the Light,In that abysmal night,Will you have courage, then, to rise and tellEarth of this miracle?Will you have courage, then, to bow the head,And say, when all is said—
"Out of this Nothingness arose our thought!This blank abysmal NoughtWoke, and brought forth that lighted City street,Those towers, that armoured fleet?" ...
IV
When you have seen those vacant primal skiesBeyond the centuries.Watched the pale mists across their darkness flow,As in a lantern-show,Weaving, by merest "chance," out of thin air,Pageants of praise and prayer;Watched the great hills like clouds arise and set,And one—named Olivet;When you have seen, as a shadow passing away,One child clasp hands and pray;When you have seen emerge from that dark mireOne martyr, ringed with fire;Or, from that Nothingness, by special grace,One woman's love-lit face, ...
V
Will you have courage, then, to front that law(From which your sophists drawTheir only right to flout one human creed)That nothing can proceed—Not even thought, not even love—from lessThan its own nothingness?The law is yours! But dare you waive your pride,And kneel where you denied?The law is yours! Dare you re-kindle, then,One faith for faithless men,And say you found, on that dark road you trod,In the beginning—GOD?
Kings of the earth, Kings of the earth, the trumpet rings for warning,And like the golden swords that ray from out the setting sunThe shout goes out of the trumpet mouth across the hills of morning,Wake; for the last great battle dawns and all the wars are done.Now all the plains of Europe smoke with marching hooves of thunder,And through each ragged mountain-gorge the guns begin to gleam;And round a hundred cities where the women watch and wonder,The tramp of passing armies aches and faints into a dream.The King of Ind is drawing nigh: a hundred leagues are cloudedAlong his loud earth-shaking march from east to western sea:The King o' the Setting Sun is here and all the seas are shroudedWith sails that carry half the world to front Eternity.Soon shall the darkness roll around the grappling of the nations,A darkness lit with deadly gleams of blood and steel and fire;Soon shall the last great pæan of earth's war-worn generationsRoar through the thunder-clouded air round War's red funeral pyre.But here defeat and victory are both allied with heaven,The enfolding sky makes every foe the centre of her dome,Each fights for God and his own right, and unto each is givenThe right to find the heart of heaven where'er he finds his home.O, who shall win, and who shall lose, and who shall take the gloryHere at the meeting of the roads, where every cause is right?O, who shall live, and who shall die, and who shall tell the story?Each strikes for faith and fatherland in that immortal fight.High on the grey old hills of Time the last immortal rally,Under the storm of the last great tattered flag, shall laugh to seeThe blood of Armageddon roll from every smoking valley,Shall laugh aloud, then rush on death for God and chivalry.Kings of the earth, Kings of the earth, O, which of you then shall inheritThe Kingdom, the Power and the Glory? for the world's old light grows dimAnd the cry of you all goes up all night to the dark enfolding Spirit,Each of you fights for God and home; but God, ah, what of Him?
Kings of the earth, Kings of the earth, the trumpet rings for warning,And like the golden swords that ray from out the setting sunThe shout goes out of the trumpet mouth across the hills of morning,Wake; for the last great battle dawns and all the wars are done.
Now all the plains of Europe smoke with marching hooves of thunder,And through each ragged mountain-gorge the guns begin to gleam;And round a hundred cities where the women watch and wonder,The tramp of passing armies aches and faints into a dream.
The King of Ind is drawing nigh: a hundred leagues are cloudedAlong his loud earth-shaking march from east to western sea:The King o' the Setting Sun is here and all the seas are shroudedWith sails that carry half the world to front Eternity.
Soon shall the darkness roll around the grappling of the nations,A darkness lit with deadly gleams of blood and steel and fire;Soon shall the last great pæan of earth's war-worn generationsRoar through the thunder-clouded air round War's red funeral pyre.
But here defeat and victory are both allied with heaven,The enfolding sky makes every foe the centre of her dome,Each fights for God and his own right, and unto each is givenThe right to find the heart of heaven where'er he finds his home.
O, who shall win, and who shall lose, and who shall take the gloryHere at the meeting of the roads, where every cause is right?O, who shall live, and who shall die, and who shall tell the story?Each strikes for faith and fatherland in that immortal fight.
High on the grey old hills of Time the last immortal rally,Under the storm of the last great tattered flag, shall laugh to seeThe blood of Armageddon roll from every smoking valley,Shall laugh aloud, then rush on death for God and chivalry.
Kings of the earth, Kings of the earth, O, which of you then shall inheritThe Kingdom, the Power and the Glory? for the world's old light grows dimAnd the cry of you all goes up all night to the dark enfolding Spirit,Each of you fights for God and home; but God, ah, what of Him?
IAll that is broken shall be mended;All that is lost shall be found;I will bind up every woundWhen that which is begun shall be ended.Not peace I brought among you but a swordTo divide the night from the day,When I sent My worlds forth in their battle-arrayTo die and to live,To give and to receive,Saith the Lord.IIOf old time they said none is good save our God;But ye that have seen how the ages have shrunk from my rod,And how red is the wine-press wherein at my bidding they trod,Have answered and said that with Eden I fashioned the snake,That I mould you of clay for a moment, then mar you and break,And there is none evil but I, the supreme Evil, God.Lo, I say unto both, I am neither;But greater than either;For meeting and mingling in Me they become neither evil nor good;Their cycle is rounded, they know neither hunger nor food,They need neither sickle nor seed-time, nor root nor fruit,They are ultimate, infinite, absolute.Therefore I say unto all that have sinned,East and West and South and NorthThe wings of my measureless love go forthTo cover you all: they are free as the wings of the wind.IIIConsider the troubled waters of the seaWhich never rest;As the wandering waves are ye;Yet assuaged and appeased and forgiven,As the seas are gathered together under the infinite glory of heaven,I gather you all to my breast.But the sins and the creeds and the sorrows that trouble the seaRelapse and subside,Chiming like chords in a world-wide symphonyAs they cease to chide;For they break and they are broken of sound and hue,And they meet and they murmur and they mingle anew,Interweaving, intervolving, like waves: they have no stay:They are all made as one with the deep, when they sink and are vanished away;Yea, all is toned at a turn of the tideTo a calm and golden harmony;But I—shall I wonder or greatly care,For their depth or their height?Shall it be more than a song in my sightHow many wandering waves there were,Or how many colours and changes of light?It is your eyes that seeAnd take heed of these things: they were fashioned for you, not for Me.IVWith the stars and the clouds I have clothed Myself here for your eyesTo behold That which Is. I have set forth the strength of the skiesAs one draweth a picture before you to make your hearts wise;That the infinite souls I have fashioned may know as I know,Visibly revealedIn the flowers of the field,Yea, declared by the stars in their courses, the tides in their flow,And the clash of the world's wide battle as it sways to and fro,Flashing forth as a flameThe unnameable Name,The ineffable Word,I am the Lord.VI am the End to which the whole world strives:Therefore are ye girdled with a wild desire and shodWith sorrow; for among you all no soulShall ever cease or sleep or reach its goalOf union and communion with the Whole,Or rest content with less than being God.Still, as unending asymptotes, your livesIn all their myriad wandering waysApproach Me with the progress of the golden days;Approach Me; for my love contrivesThat ye should have the glory of thisFor ever; yea, that life should blendWith life and only vanish awayFrom day to wider wealthier day,Like still increasing spheres of light that melt and merge in wider spheresEven as the infinite years of the past melt in the infinite future years.Each new delight of sense,Each hope, each love, each fear,Widens, relumes and recreates each sphere,From a new ring and nimbus of pre-eminence.I am the Sphere without circumference:I only and for ever comprehendAll others that within me meet and blend.Death is but the blinding kissOf two finite infinities;Two finite infinite orbsThe splendour of the greater of which absorbsThe less, though both like Love have no beginning and no end.VITherefore is Love's own breathLike Knowledge, a continual death;And all his laughter and kisses and tears,And woven wiles of peace and strife,That ever widen thus your temporal spheres,Are making of the memory of your former yearsA very death in life.VIII am that I am;Ye are evil and good;With colour and glory and story and song ye are fed as with food:The cold and the heat,The bitter and the sweet,The calm and the tempest fulfil my Word;Yet will ye complain of my two-edged swordThat has fashioned the finite and mortal and given you the sweetness of strife,The blackness and whiteness,The darkness and brightness,Which sever your souls from the formless and void and hold you fast-fettered to life?VIIIBehold now, is Life not good?Yea, is it not also much more than the food,More than the raiment, more than the breath?Yet Strife is its name!Say, which will ye cast out first from the furnace, the fuel or the flame?Would ye all be as I am; and know neither evil nor good; neither life; neither death;Or mix with the void and the formless till all were as one and the same?IXI am that I am; the Container of all things: kneel, lift up your handsTo the high Consummation of good and of evil which none understands;The divine Paradox, the ineffable Word, in whose light the poor souls that ye trodUnderfoot as too vile for their fellows are at terrible union with God!Am I not over both evil and good,The righteous man and the shedder of blood?Shall I save or slay?I am neither the night nor the day,Saith the Lord.Judge not, oh ye that are round my footstool, judge not, ere the hour be bornThat shall laugh you also to scorn.XAh, yet I say unto all that have sinned,East and West and South and NorthThe wings of my measureless love go forthTo cover you all: they are free as the wings of the wind.XIBut one thing is needful; and ye shall be trueTo yourselves and the goal and the God that ye seek;Yea, the day and the night shall requite it to youIf ye love one another, if your love be not weak.XIISince I sent out my worlds in their battle-arrayTo die and to live,To give and to receive,Not peace, not peace, I have brought among you but a sword,To divide the night from the day,Saith the Lord;Yet all that is broken shall be mended,And all that is lost shall be found,I will bind up every wound,When that which is begun shall be ended.
I
All that is broken shall be mended;All that is lost shall be found;I will bind up every woundWhen that which is begun shall be ended.Not peace I brought among you but a swordTo divide the night from the day,When I sent My worlds forth in their battle-arrayTo die and to live,To give and to receive,Saith the Lord.
II
Of old time they said none is good save our God;But ye that have seen how the ages have shrunk from my rod,And how red is the wine-press wherein at my bidding they trod,Have answered and said that with Eden I fashioned the snake,That I mould you of clay for a moment, then mar you and break,And there is none evil but I, the supreme Evil, God.Lo, I say unto both, I am neither;But greater than either;For meeting and mingling in Me they become neither evil nor good;Their cycle is rounded, they know neither hunger nor food,They need neither sickle nor seed-time, nor root nor fruit,They are ultimate, infinite, absolute.Therefore I say unto all that have sinned,East and West and South and NorthThe wings of my measureless love go forthTo cover you all: they are free as the wings of the wind.
III
Consider the troubled waters of the seaWhich never rest;As the wandering waves are ye;Yet assuaged and appeased and forgiven,As the seas are gathered together under the infinite glory of heaven,I gather you all to my breast.But the sins and the creeds and the sorrows that trouble the seaRelapse and subside,Chiming like chords in a world-wide symphonyAs they cease to chide;For they break and they are broken of sound and hue,And they meet and they murmur and they mingle anew,Interweaving, intervolving, like waves: they have no stay:They are all made as one with the deep, when they sink and are vanished away;Yea, all is toned at a turn of the tideTo a calm and golden harmony;But I—shall I wonder or greatly care,For their depth or their height?Shall it be more than a song in my sightHow many wandering waves there were,Or how many colours and changes of light?It is your eyes that seeAnd take heed of these things: they were fashioned for you, not for Me.
IV
With the stars and the clouds I have clothed Myself here for your eyesTo behold That which Is. I have set forth the strength of the skiesAs one draweth a picture before you to make your hearts wise;That the infinite souls I have fashioned may know as I know,Visibly revealedIn the flowers of the field,Yea, declared by the stars in their courses, the tides in their flow,And the clash of the world's wide battle as it sways to and fro,Flashing forth as a flameThe unnameable Name,The ineffable Word,I am the Lord.
V
I am the End to which the whole world strives:Therefore are ye girdled with a wild desire and shodWith sorrow; for among you all no soulShall ever cease or sleep or reach its goalOf union and communion with the Whole,Or rest content with less than being God.Still, as unending asymptotes, your livesIn all their myriad wandering waysApproach Me with the progress of the golden days;Approach Me; for my love contrivesThat ye should have the glory of thisFor ever; yea, that life should blendWith life and only vanish awayFrom day to wider wealthier day,Like still increasing spheres of light that melt and merge in wider spheresEven as the infinite years of the past melt in the infinite future years.Each new delight of sense,Each hope, each love, each fear,Widens, relumes and recreates each sphere,From a new ring and nimbus of pre-eminence.I am the Sphere without circumference:I only and for ever comprehendAll others that within me meet and blend.Death is but the blinding kissOf two finite infinities;Two finite infinite orbsThe splendour of the greater of which absorbsThe less, though both like Love have no beginning and no end.
VI
Therefore is Love's own breathLike Knowledge, a continual death;And all his laughter and kisses and tears,And woven wiles of peace and strife,That ever widen thus your temporal spheres,Are making of the memory of your former yearsA very death in life.
VII
I am that I am;Ye are evil and good;With colour and glory and story and song ye are fed as with food:The cold and the heat,The bitter and the sweet,The calm and the tempest fulfil my Word;Yet will ye complain of my two-edged swordThat has fashioned the finite and mortal and given you the sweetness of strife,The blackness and whiteness,The darkness and brightness,Which sever your souls from the formless and void and hold you fast-fettered to life?
VIII
Behold now, is Life not good?Yea, is it not also much more than the food,More than the raiment, more than the breath?Yet Strife is its name!Say, which will ye cast out first from the furnace, the fuel or the flame?Would ye all be as I am; and know neither evil nor good; neither life; neither death;Or mix with the void and the formless till all were as one and the same?
IX
I am that I am; the Container of all things: kneel, lift up your handsTo the high Consummation of good and of evil which none understands;The divine Paradox, the ineffable Word, in whose light the poor souls that ye trodUnderfoot as too vile for their fellows are at terrible union with God!Am I not over both evil and good,The righteous man and the shedder of blood?Shall I save or slay?I am neither the night nor the day,Saith the Lord.Judge not, oh ye that are round my footstool, judge not, ere the hour be bornThat shall laugh you also to scorn.
X
Ah, yet I say unto all that have sinned,East and West and South and NorthThe wings of my measureless love go forthTo cover you all: they are free as the wings of the wind.
XI
But one thing is needful; and ye shall be trueTo yourselves and the goal and the God that ye seek;Yea, the day and the night shall requite it to youIf ye love one another, if your love be not weak.
XII
Since I sent out my worlds in their battle-arrayTo die and to live,To give and to receive,Not peace, not peace, I have brought among you but a sword,To divide the night from the day,Saith the Lord;Yet all that is broken shall be mended,And all that is lost shall be found,I will bind up every wound,When that which is begun shall be ended.