On Ararat there grew a vine,When Asia from her bathing rose;Our first sailor made a twineThereof for his prefiguring brows.Canst divineWhere, upon our dusty earth, of that vine a cluster grows?On Golgotha there grew a thornRound the long-prefigured Brows.Mourn, O mourn!For the vine have we the spine? Is this all the Heaven allows?On Calvary was shook a spear;Press the point into thy heart—Joy and fear!All the spines upon the thorn into curling tendrils start.O dismay!I, a wingless mortal, sportingWith the tresses of the sun?I, that dare my hand to layOn the thunder in its snorting?Ere begun,Falls my singed song down the sky, even the old Icarian way.From the fall precipitantThese dim snatches of her chant[B]Only have remainèd mine;—That from spear and thorn aloneMay be grownFor the front of saint or singer any divinizing twine.Her song said that no springingParadise but evermoreHangeth on a singingThat has chords of weeping,And that sings the after-sleepingTo souls which wake too sore."But woe the singer, woe!" she said; "beyond the deadhis singing-lore,All its art of sweet and sore,He learns, in Elenore!"Where is the land of Luthany,Where is the tract of Elenore?I am bound therefor."Pierce thy heart to find the key;With thee takeOnly what none else would keep;Learn to dream when thou dost wake,Learn to wake when thou dost sleep.Learn to water joy with tears,Learn from fears to vanquish fears;To hope, for thou dar'st not despair,Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve;Plough thou the rock until it bear;Know, for thou else couldst not believe;Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive;Die, for none other way canst live.When earth and heaven lay down their veil,And that apocalypse turns thee pale;When thy seeing blindeth theeTo what thy fellow-mortals see;When their sight to thee is sightless;Their living, death; their light, most lightless;Search no more—Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."Where is the land of Luthany,And where the region Elenore?I do faint therefor."When, to the new eyes of thee,All things, by immortal power,Near or far,HiddenlyTo each other linkèd are,That thou canst not stir a flowerWithout troubling of a star;When thy song is shield and mirrorTo the fair snake-curlèd Pain,Where thou dar'st affront her terrorThat on her thou may'st attainPerséan conquest;—seek no more,O seek no more!Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."So sang she, so wept she,Through a dream-night's day;And with her magic singing kept she—Mystical in music—That garden of enchantingIn visionary May;Swayless for my spirit's haunting,Thrice-threefold walled with emerald from our mortalmornings grey.
On Ararat there grew a vine,When Asia from her bathing rose;Our first sailor made a twineThereof for his prefiguring brows.Canst divineWhere, upon our dusty earth, of that vine a cluster grows?
On Golgotha there grew a thornRound the long-prefigured Brows.Mourn, O mourn!For the vine have we the spine? Is this all the Heaven allows?
On Calvary was shook a spear;Press the point into thy heart—Joy and fear!All the spines upon the thorn into curling tendrils start.
O dismay!I, a wingless mortal, sportingWith the tresses of the sun?I, that dare my hand to layOn the thunder in its snorting?Ere begun,Falls my singed song down the sky, even the old Icarian way.
From the fall precipitantThese dim snatches of her chant[B]Only have remainèd mine;—That from spear and thorn aloneMay be grownFor the front of saint or singer any divinizing twine.
Her song said that no springingParadise but evermoreHangeth on a singingThat has chords of weeping,And that sings the after-sleepingTo souls which wake too sore."But woe the singer, woe!" she said; "beyond the deadhis singing-lore,All its art of sweet and sore,He learns, in Elenore!"
Where is the land of Luthany,Where is the tract of Elenore?I am bound therefor.
"Pierce thy heart to find the key;With thee takeOnly what none else would keep;Learn to dream when thou dost wake,Learn to wake when thou dost sleep.Learn to water joy with tears,Learn from fears to vanquish fears;To hope, for thou dar'st not despair,Exult, for that thou dar'st not grieve;Plough thou the rock until it bear;Know, for thou else couldst not believe;Lose, that the lost thou may'st receive;Die, for none other way canst live.When earth and heaven lay down their veil,And that apocalypse turns thee pale;When thy seeing blindeth theeTo what thy fellow-mortals see;When their sight to thee is sightless;Their living, death; their light, most lightless;Search no more—Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."
Where is the land of Luthany,And where the region Elenore?I do faint therefor.
"When, to the new eyes of thee,All things, by immortal power,Near or far,HiddenlyTo each other linkèd are,That thou canst not stir a flowerWithout troubling of a star;When thy song is shield and mirrorTo the fair snake-curlèd Pain,Where thou dar'st affront her terrorThat on her thou may'st attainPerséan conquest;—seek no more,O seek no more!Pass the gates of Luthany, tread the region Elenore."
So sang she, so wept she,Through a dream-night's day;And with her magic singing kept she—Mystical in music—That garden of enchantingIn visionary May;Swayless for my spirit's haunting,Thrice-threefold walled with emerald from our mortalmornings grey.
Daughter of the ancient EveWe know the gifts ye gave—and give.Who knows the gifts whichyoushall give,Daughter of the newer Eve?You, if my soul be augur, youShall—O what shall you not, Sweet, do?The celestial traitress play,And all mankind to bliss betray;With sacrosanct cajoleriesAnd starry treachery of your eyes,Tempt us back to Paradise!Make heavenly trespass;—ay, press inWhere faint the fledge-foot seraphin,Blest fool! Be ensign of our wars,And shame us all to warriors!Unbanner your bright locks,—advance,Girl, their gilded puissance,I' the mystic vaward, and draw onAfter the lovely gonfalonUs to out-folly the excessOf your sweet foolhardiness;To adventure like intenseAssault against Omnipotence!Give me song, as She is, new,Earth should turn in time thereto!New, and new, and thrice so new,All old sweets, New Sweet, meant you!Fair, I had a dream of thee,When my young heart beat prophecy,And in apparition elateThy little breasts knew waxèd great,Sister of the Canticle,And thee for God grown marriageable.How my desire desired your day,That, wheeled in rumour on its way,Shook me thus with presentience! ThenEden's lopped tree shall shoot again:For who Christ's eyes shall miss, with thoseEyes for evident nuncios?Or who be tardy to His callIn your accents augural?Who shall not feel the Heavens hidImpend, at tremble of your lid,And divine advent shine avowedUnder that dim and lucid cloud;Yea, 'fore the silver apocalypseFail, at the unsealing of your lips?When to loveyouis (O Christ's spouse!)To love the beauty of His house.Then come the Isaian days; the oldShall dream; and our young men beholdVision—yea, the vision of Thabor-mount,Which none to other shall recount,Because in all men's hearts shall beThe seeing and the prophecy.For ended is the Mystery Play,When Christ is life, and you the way;When Egypt's spoils are Israel's right,And Day fulfils the married arms of Night.But here my lips are still.UntilYou and the hour shall be revealed,This song is sung and sung not, and its wordsare sealed.
Daughter of the ancient EveWe know the gifts ye gave—and give.Who knows the gifts whichyoushall give,Daughter of the newer Eve?You, if my soul be augur, youShall—O what shall you not, Sweet, do?The celestial traitress play,And all mankind to bliss betray;With sacrosanct cajoleriesAnd starry treachery of your eyes,Tempt us back to Paradise!Make heavenly trespass;—ay, press inWhere faint the fledge-foot seraphin,Blest fool! Be ensign of our wars,And shame us all to warriors!Unbanner your bright locks,—advance,Girl, their gilded puissance,I' the mystic vaward, and draw onAfter the lovely gonfalonUs to out-folly the excessOf your sweet foolhardiness;To adventure like intenseAssault against Omnipotence!
Give me song, as She is, new,Earth should turn in time thereto!New, and new, and thrice so new,All old sweets, New Sweet, meant you!Fair, I had a dream of thee,When my young heart beat prophecy,And in apparition elateThy little breasts knew waxèd great,Sister of the Canticle,And thee for God grown marriageable.How my desire desired your day,That, wheeled in rumour on its way,Shook me thus with presentience! ThenEden's lopped tree shall shoot again:For who Christ's eyes shall miss, with thoseEyes for evident nuncios?Or who be tardy to His callIn your accents augural?Who shall not feel the Heavens hidImpend, at tremble of your lid,And divine advent shine avowedUnder that dim and lucid cloud;Yea, 'fore the silver apocalypseFail, at the unsealing of your lips?When to loveyouis (O Christ's spouse!)To love the beauty of His house.Then come the Isaian days; the oldShall dream; and our young men beholdVision—yea, the vision of Thabor-mount,Which none to other shall recount,Because in all men's hearts shall beThe seeing and the prophecy.For ended is the Mystery Play,When Christ is life, and you the way;When Egypt's spoils are Israel's right,And Day fulfils the married arms of Night.
But here my lips are still.UntilYou and the hour shall be revealed,This song is sung and sung not, and its wordsare sealed.
O tree of many branches! One thou hastThou barest not, but grafted'st on thee. Now,Should all men's thunders break on thee, and leaveThee reft of bough and blossom, that one branchShall cling to thee, my Father, Brother, Friend,Shall cling to thee, until the end of end!
O tree of many branches! One thou hastThou barest not, but grafted'st on thee. Now,Should all men's thunders break on thee, and leaveThee reft of bough and blossom, that one branchShall cling to thee, my Father, Brother, Friend,Shall cling to thee, until the end of end!
The lover, whose soul shaken isIn some decuman billow of bliss,Who feels his gradual-wading feetSink in some sudden hollow of sweet,And 'mid love's usèd converse comesSharp on a mood which all joy sums—An instant fine compendium ofThe liberal-leavèd writ of love—His abashed pulses beating thickAt the exigent joy and quick,Is dumbed, by aiming utterance greatUp to the miracle of his fate.The wise girl, such Icarian fallSaved by her confidence that she's small,—As what no kindred word will fitIs uttered best by opposite,Love in the tongue of hate exprest,And deepest anguish in a jest,—Feeling the infinite must beBest said by triviality,Speaks, where expression bates its wings,Just happy, alien, little things;What of all words is in excessImplies in a sweet nothingness,With dailiest babble shows her senseThat full speech were full impotence;And, while she feels the heavens lie bare,—She only talks about her hair.
The lover, whose soul shaken isIn some decuman billow of bliss,Who feels his gradual-wading feetSink in some sudden hollow of sweet,And 'mid love's usèd converse comesSharp on a mood which all joy sums—An instant fine compendium ofThe liberal-leavèd writ of love—His abashed pulses beating thickAt the exigent joy and quick,Is dumbed, by aiming utterance greatUp to the miracle of his fate.The wise girl, such Icarian fallSaved by her confidence that she's small,—As what no kindred word will fitIs uttered best by opposite,Love in the tongue of hate exprest,And deepest anguish in a jest,—Feeling the infinite must beBest said by triviality,Speaks, where expression bates its wings,Just happy, alien, little things;What of all words is in excessImplies in a sweet nothingness,With dailiest babble shows her senseThat full speech were full impotence;And, while she feels the heavens lie bare,—She only talks about her hair.
PRELUDE
The wailful sweetness of the violinFloats down the hushèd waters of the wind;The heart-strings of the throbbing harp beginTo long in aching music. Spirit-pined,In wafts that poignant sweetness drifts, untilThe wounded soul ooze sadness. The red sun,A bubble of fire, drops slowly toward the hill,While one bird prattles that the day is done.O setting Sun, that as in reverent daysSinkest in music to thy smoothèd sleep,Discrowned of homage, though yet crowned with rays,Hymned not at harvest more, though reapers reap:For thee this music wakes not. O deceived,If thou hear in these thoughtless harmoniesA pious phantom of adorings reaved,And echo of fair ancient flatteries!Yet, in this field where the Cross planted reigns,I know not what strange passion bows my headTo thee, whose great command upon my veinsProves thee a god for me not dead, not dead!For worship it is too incredulous,For doubt—oh, too believing-passionate!What wild divinity makes my heart thusA fount of most baptismal tears?—Thy straightLong beam lies steady on the Cross. Ah me!What secret would thy radiant finger show?Of thy bright mastership is this the key?Isthisthy secret, then? And is it woe?Fling from thine ear the burning curls, and harkA song thou hast not heard in Northern day;For Rome too daring, and for Greece too dark,Sweet with wild wings that pass, that pass away!ODEAlpha and Omega, sadness and mirth,The springing music, and its wasting breath—The fairest things in life are Death and Birth,And of these two the fairer thing is Death.Mystical twins of Time inseparable,The younger hath the holier array,And hath the awfuller sway:It is the falling star that trails the light,It is the breaking wave that hath the might,The passing shower that rainbows maniple.Is it not so, O thou down-stricken Day,That draw'st thy splendours round thee in thy fall?High was thine Eastern pomp inaugural;But thou dost set in statelier pageantryLauded with tumults of a firmament:Thy visible music-blasts make deaf the sky,Thy cymbals clang to fire the Occident,Thou dost thy dying so triumphally:Iseethe crimson blaring of thy shawms!Why do those lucent palmsStrew thy feet's failing thicklier than their might,Who dost but hood thy glorious eyes with night,And vex the heels of all the yesterdays?Lo! this loud, lackeying praiseWill stay behind to greet the usurping moon,When they have cloud-barred over thee the West.Oh, shake the bright dust from thy parting shoon!The earth not pæans thee, nor serves thy hest;Be godded not by Heaven! avert thy face,And leave to blank disgraceThe oblivious world! unsceptre thee of state and place!Yet ere Olympus thou wast, and a god!Though we deny thy nod,We cannot spoil thee of thy divinity.What know we elder than thee?When thou didst, bursting from the great void's husk,Leap like a lion on the throat o' the dusk;When the angels rose-chapletedSang to each other,The vaulted blaze overheadOf their vast pinions spread,Hailing thee brother;How chaos rolled back from the wonder,And the First Morn knelt down to thy visage of thunder!Thou didst draw to thy sideThy young Auroral bride,And lift her veil of night and mystery;Tellus with baby handsShook off her swaddling-bands,And from the unswathèd vapours laughed to thee.Thou twi-form deity, nurse at once and sire!Thou genitor that all things nourishest!The earth was suckled at thy shining breast,And in her veins is quick thy milky fire.Who scarfed her with the morning? and who setUpon her brow the day-fall's carcanet?Who queened her front with the enrondured moon?Who dug night's jewels from their vaulty mineTo dower her, past an eastern wizard's dreams,When, hovering on him through his haschish-swoon,All the rained gems of the old Tartarian lineShiver in lustrous throbbings of tinged flame?—Whereof a moiety in the Paolis' seamsStatelily builded their Venetian name.Thou hast enwoofèd herAn empress of the air,And all her births are propertied by thee:Her teeming centuriesDrew being from thine eyes:Thou fatt'st the marrow of all quality.Who lit the furnace of the mammoth's heart?Who shagged him like Pilatus' ribbèd flanks?Who raised the columned ranksOf that old pre-diluvian forestry,Which like a continent torn oppressed the sea,When the ancient heavens did in rains depart,While the high-dancèd whirlsOf the tossed scud made hiss thy drenchèd curls?Thou rear'dst the enormous brood;Who hast with life imbuedThe lion maned in tawny majesty,The tiger velvet-barred,The stealthy-stepping pard,And the lithe panther's flexuous symmetry.How came the entombèd tree a light-bearer,Though sunk in lightless lair?Friend of the forgers of earth,Mate of the earthquake and thunders volcanic,Clasped in the arms of the forces TitanicWhich rock like a cradle the girthOf the ether-hung world;Swart son of the swarthy mine,When flame on the breath of his nostrils feedsHow is his countenance half-divine,Like thee in thy sanguine weeds?Thou gavest him his light,Though sepulchred in nightBeneath the dead bones of a perished world;Over his prostrate formThough cold, and heat, and storm,The mountainous wrack of a creation hurled.Who made the splendid roseSaturate with purple glows;Cupped to the marge with beauty; a perfume-pressWhence the wind vintagesGushes of warmèd fragrance richer farThan all the flavorous ooze of Cyprus' vats?Lo, in yon gale which waves her green cymar,With dusky cheeks burnt redShe sways her heavy head,Drunk with the must of her own odorousness;While in a moted trouble the vexed gnatsMaze, and vibrate, and tease the noontide hush.Who girt dissolvèd lightnings in the grape?Summered the opal with an Irised flush?Is it not thou that dost the tulip drape,And huest the daffodilly,Yet who hast snowed the lily;And her frail sister, whom the waters name,Dost vestal-vesture 'mid the blaze of June,Cold as the new-sprung girlhood of the moonEre Autumn's kiss sultry her cheek with flame?Thou sway'st thy sceptred beamO'er all delight and dream;Beauty is beautiful but in thy glance:And, like a jocund maidIn garland-flowers arrayed,Before thy ark Earth keeps her sacred dance.And now, O shaken from thine antique throne,And sunken from thy cœrule empery,Now that the red glare of thy fall is blownIn smoke and flame about the windy sky,Where are the wailing voices that should meetFrom hill, stream, grove, and all of mortal shapeWho tread thy gifts, in vineyards as stray feetPulp the globed weight of juiced Iberia's grape?Where is the threne o' the sea?And why not dirges theeThe wind, that sings to himself as he makes strideLonely and terrible on the Andéan height?Where is the Naiad 'mid her sworded sedge?The Nymph wan-glimmering by her wan fount's verge?The Dryad at timid gaze by the wood-side?The Oread jutting lightOn one up-strainèd sole from the rock-ledge?The Nereid tip-toe on the scud o' the surge,With whistling tresses dank athwart her face,And all her figure poised in lithe Circean grace?Why withers their lament?Their tresses tear-besprent,Have they sighed hence with trailing garment-hem?O sweet, O sad, O fair,I catch your flying hair,Draw your eyes down to me, and dream on them!A space, and they fleet from me. Must ye fade—O old, essential candours, ye who madeThe earth a living and a radiant thing—And leave her corpse in our strained, cheated arms?Lo ever thus, when Song with chorded charmsDraws from dull death his lost Eurydice,Lo ever thus, even at consummating,Even in the swooning minute that claims her his,Even as he trembles to the impassioned kissOf reincarnate Beauty, his controlClasps the cold body, and foregoes the soul!Whatso looks lovelilyIs but the rainbow on life's weeping rain.Why have we longings of immortal pain,And all we long for mortal? Woe is me,And all our chants but chaplet some decay,As mine this vanishing—nay, vanished Day.The low sky-line dusks to a leaden hue,No rift disturbs the heavy shade and chill,Save one, where the charred firmament lets throughThe scorching dazzle of Heaven; 'gainst which the hill,Out-flattened sombrely,Stands black as life against eternity.Against eternity?A rifting light in meBurns through the leaden broodings of the mind:O blessèd Sun, thy stateUprisen or derogateDafts me no more with doubt; I seek and find.If with exultant treadThou foot the Eastern sea,Or like a golden beeSting the West to angry red,Thou dost image, thou dost followThat King-Maker of Creation,Who, ere Hellas hailed Apollo,Gave thee, angel-god, thy station;Thou art of Him a type memorial.Like Him thou hang'st in dreadful pomp of bloodUpon thy Western rood;And His stained brow did veil like thine to-night,Yet lift once more Its light,And, risen, again departed from our ball,But when It set on earth arose in Heaven.Thus hath He unto death His beauty given:And so of all which form inheritethThe fall doth pass the rise in worth;For birth hath in itself the germ of death,But death hath in itself the germ of birth.It is the falling acorn buds the tree,The falling rain that bears the greenery,The fern-plants moulder when the ferns arise.For there is nothing lives but something dies,And there is nothing dies but something lives.Till skies be fugitives,Till Time, the hidden root of change, updries,Are Birth and Death inseparable on earth;For they are twain yet one, and Death is Birth.AFTER-STRAINNow with wan ray that other sun of SongSets in the bleakening waters of my soul:One step, and lo! the Cross stands gaunt and long'Twixt me and yet bright skies, a presaged dole.Even so, O Cross! thine is the victory.Thy roots are fast within our fairest fields;Brightness may emanate in Heaven from thee,Here thy dread symbol only shadow yields.Of reapèd joys thou art the heavy sheafWhich must be lifted, though the reaper groan;Yea, we may cry till Heaven's great ear be deaf,But we must bear thee, and must bear alone.Vain were a Simon; of the AntipodesOur night not borrows the superfluous day.Yet woe to him that from his burden flees,Crushed in the fall of what he cast away.Therefore, O tender Lady, Queen Mary,Thou gentleness that dost enmoss and drapeThe Cross's rigorous austerity,Wipe thou the blood from wounds that needs must gape."Lo, though suns rise and set, but crosses stay,I leave thee ever," saith she, "light of cheer."'Tis so: yon sky still thinks upon the Day,And showers aërial blossoms on his bier.Yon cloud with wrinkled fire is edgèd sharp;And once more welling through the air, ah me!How the sweet viol plains him to the harp,Whose pangèd sobbings throng tumultuously.Oh, this Medusa-pleasure with her stings!This essence of all suffering, which is joy!I am not thankless for the spell it brings,Though tears must be told down for the charmed toy.No; while soul, sky, and music bleed together,Let me give thanks even for those griefs in me,The restless windward stirrings of whose featherProve them the brood of immortality.My soul is quitted of death-neighbouring swoon,Who shall not slake her immitigable scarsUntil she hear "My sister!" from the moon,And take the kindred kisses of the stars.
The wailful sweetness of the violinFloats down the hushèd waters of the wind;The heart-strings of the throbbing harp beginTo long in aching music. Spirit-pined,
In wafts that poignant sweetness drifts, untilThe wounded soul ooze sadness. The red sun,A bubble of fire, drops slowly toward the hill,While one bird prattles that the day is done.
O setting Sun, that as in reverent daysSinkest in music to thy smoothèd sleep,Discrowned of homage, though yet crowned with rays,Hymned not at harvest more, though reapers reap:
For thee this music wakes not. O deceived,If thou hear in these thoughtless harmoniesA pious phantom of adorings reaved,And echo of fair ancient flatteries!
Yet, in this field where the Cross planted reigns,I know not what strange passion bows my headTo thee, whose great command upon my veinsProves thee a god for me not dead, not dead!
For worship it is too incredulous,For doubt—oh, too believing-passionate!What wild divinity makes my heart thusA fount of most baptismal tears?—Thy straight
Long beam lies steady on the Cross. Ah me!What secret would thy radiant finger show?Of thy bright mastership is this the key?Isthisthy secret, then? And is it woe?
Fling from thine ear the burning curls, and harkA song thou hast not heard in Northern day;For Rome too daring, and for Greece too dark,Sweet with wild wings that pass, that pass away!
ODE
ODE
Alpha and Omega, sadness and mirth,The springing music, and its wasting breath—The fairest things in life are Death and Birth,And of these two the fairer thing is Death.Mystical twins of Time inseparable,The younger hath the holier array,And hath the awfuller sway:It is the falling star that trails the light,It is the breaking wave that hath the might,The passing shower that rainbows maniple.Is it not so, O thou down-stricken Day,That draw'st thy splendours round thee in thy fall?High was thine Eastern pomp inaugural;But thou dost set in statelier pageantryLauded with tumults of a firmament:Thy visible music-blasts make deaf the sky,Thy cymbals clang to fire the Occident,Thou dost thy dying so triumphally:Iseethe crimson blaring of thy shawms!Why do those lucent palmsStrew thy feet's failing thicklier than their might,Who dost but hood thy glorious eyes with night,And vex the heels of all the yesterdays?Lo! this loud, lackeying praiseWill stay behind to greet the usurping moon,When they have cloud-barred over thee the West.Oh, shake the bright dust from thy parting shoon!The earth not pæans thee, nor serves thy hest;Be godded not by Heaven! avert thy face,And leave to blank disgraceThe oblivious world! unsceptre thee of state and place!
Yet ere Olympus thou wast, and a god!Though we deny thy nod,We cannot spoil thee of thy divinity.What know we elder than thee?When thou didst, bursting from the great void's husk,Leap like a lion on the throat o' the dusk;When the angels rose-chapletedSang to each other,The vaulted blaze overheadOf their vast pinions spread,Hailing thee brother;How chaos rolled back from the wonder,And the First Morn knelt down to thy visage of thunder!Thou didst draw to thy sideThy young Auroral bride,And lift her veil of night and mystery;Tellus with baby handsShook off her swaddling-bands,And from the unswathèd vapours laughed to thee.
Thou twi-form deity, nurse at once and sire!Thou genitor that all things nourishest!The earth was suckled at thy shining breast,And in her veins is quick thy milky fire.Who scarfed her with the morning? and who setUpon her brow the day-fall's carcanet?Who queened her front with the enrondured moon?Who dug night's jewels from their vaulty mineTo dower her, past an eastern wizard's dreams,When, hovering on him through his haschish-swoon,All the rained gems of the old Tartarian lineShiver in lustrous throbbings of tinged flame?—Whereof a moiety in the Paolis' seamsStatelily builded their Venetian name.Thou hast enwoofèd herAn empress of the air,And all her births are propertied by thee:Her teeming centuriesDrew being from thine eyes:Thou fatt'st the marrow of all quality.
Who lit the furnace of the mammoth's heart?Who shagged him like Pilatus' ribbèd flanks?Who raised the columned ranksOf that old pre-diluvian forestry,Which like a continent torn oppressed the sea,When the ancient heavens did in rains depart,While the high-dancèd whirlsOf the tossed scud made hiss thy drenchèd curls?Thou rear'dst the enormous brood;Who hast with life imbuedThe lion maned in tawny majesty,The tiger velvet-barred,The stealthy-stepping pard,And the lithe panther's flexuous symmetry.
How came the entombèd tree a light-bearer,Though sunk in lightless lair?Friend of the forgers of earth,Mate of the earthquake and thunders volcanic,Clasped in the arms of the forces TitanicWhich rock like a cradle the girthOf the ether-hung world;Swart son of the swarthy mine,When flame on the breath of his nostrils feedsHow is his countenance half-divine,Like thee in thy sanguine weeds?Thou gavest him his light,Though sepulchred in nightBeneath the dead bones of a perished world;Over his prostrate formThough cold, and heat, and storm,The mountainous wrack of a creation hurled.
Who made the splendid roseSaturate with purple glows;Cupped to the marge with beauty; a perfume-pressWhence the wind vintagesGushes of warmèd fragrance richer farThan all the flavorous ooze of Cyprus' vats?Lo, in yon gale which waves her green cymar,With dusky cheeks burnt redShe sways her heavy head,Drunk with the must of her own odorousness;While in a moted trouble the vexed gnatsMaze, and vibrate, and tease the noontide hush.Who girt dissolvèd lightnings in the grape?Summered the opal with an Irised flush?Is it not thou that dost the tulip drape,And huest the daffodilly,Yet who hast snowed the lily;And her frail sister, whom the waters name,Dost vestal-vesture 'mid the blaze of June,Cold as the new-sprung girlhood of the moonEre Autumn's kiss sultry her cheek with flame?Thou sway'st thy sceptred beamO'er all delight and dream;Beauty is beautiful but in thy glance:And, like a jocund maidIn garland-flowers arrayed,Before thy ark Earth keeps her sacred dance.
And now, O shaken from thine antique throne,And sunken from thy cœrule empery,Now that the red glare of thy fall is blownIn smoke and flame about the windy sky,Where are the wailing voices that should meetFrom hill, stream, grove, and all of mortal shapeWho tread thy gifts, in vineyards as stray feetPulp the globed weight of juiced Iberia's grape?Where is the threne o' the sea?And why not dirges theeThe wind, that sings to himself as he makes strideLonely and terrible on the Andéan height?Where is the Naiad 'mid her sworded sedge?The Nymph wan-glimmering by her wan fount's verge?The Dryad at timid gaze by the wood-side?The Oread jutting lightOn one up-strainèd sole from the rock-ledge?The Nereid tip-toe on the scud o' the surge,With whistling tresses dank athwart her face,And all her figure poised in lithe Circean grace?Why withers their lament?Their tresses tear-besprent,Have they sighed hence with trailing garment-hem?O sweet, O sad, O fair,I catch your flying hair,Draw your eyes down to me, and dream on them!
A space, and they fleet from me. Must ye fade—O old, essential candours, ye who madeThe earth a living and a radiant thing—And leave her corpse in our strained, cheated arms?Lo ever thus, when Song with chorded charmsDraws from dull death his lost Eurydice,Lo ever thus, even at consummating,Even in the swooning minute that claims her his,Even as he trembles to the impassioned kissOf reincarnate Beauty, his controlClasps the cold body, and foregoes the soul!Whatso looks lovelilyIs but the rainbow on life's weeping rain.Why have we longings of immortal pain,And all we long for mortal? Woe is me,And all our chants but chaplet some decay,As mine this vanishing—nay, vanished Day.The low sky-line dusks to a leaden hue,No rift disturbs the heavy shade and chill,Save one, where the charred firmament lets throughThe scorching dazzle of Heaven; 'gainst which the hill,Out-flattened sombrely,Stands black as life against eternity.Against eternity?A rifting light in meBurns through the leaden broodings of the mind:O blessèd Sun, thy stateUprisen or derogateDafts me no more with doubt; I seek and find.
If with exultant treadThou foot the Eastern sea,Or like a golden beeSting the West to angry red,Thou dost image, thou dost followThat King-Maker of Creation,Who, ere Hellas hailed Apollo,Gave thee, angel-god, thy station;Thou art of Him a type memorial.Like Him thou hang'st in dreadful pomp of bloodUpon thy Western rood;And His stained brow did veil like thine to-night,Yet lift once more Its light,And, risen, again departed from our ball,But when It set on earth arose in Heaven.Thus hath He unto death His beauty given:And so of all which form inheritethThe fall doth pass the rise in worth;For birth hath in itself the germ of death,But death hath in itself the germ of birth.It is the falling acorn buds the tree,The falling rain that bears the greenery,The fern-plants moulder when the ferns arise.For there is nothing lives but something dies,And there is nothing dies but something lives.Till skies be fugitives,Till Time, the hidden root of change, updries,Are Birth and Death inseparable on earth;For they are twain yet one, and Death is Birth.
AFTER-STRAIN
AFTER-STRAIN
Now with wan ray that other sun of SongSets in the bleakening waters of my soul:One step, and lo! the Cross stands gaunt and long'Twixt me and yet bright skies, a presaged dole.
Even so, O Cross! thine is the victory.Thy roots are fast within our fairest fields;Brightness may emanate in Heaven from thee,Here thy dread symbol only shadow yields.
Of reapèd joys thou art the heavy sheafWhich must be lifted, though the reaper groan;Yea, we may cry till Heaven's great ear be deaf,But we must bear thee, and must bear alone.
Vain were a Simon; of the AntipodesOur night not borrows the superfluous day.Yet woe to him that from his burden flees,Crushed in the fall of what he cast away.
Therefore, O tender Lady, Queen Mary,Thou gentleness that dost enmoss and drapeThe Cross's rigorous austerity,Wipe thou the blood from wounds that needs must gape.
"Lo, though suns rise and set, but crosses stay,I leave thee ever," saith she, "light of cheer."'Tis so: yon sky still thinks upon the Day,And showers aërial blossoms on his bier.
Yon cloud with wrinkled fire is edgèd sharp;And once more welling through the air, ah me!How the sweet viol plains him to the harp,Whose pangèd sobbings throng tumultuously.
Oh, this Medusa-pleasure with her stings!This essence of all suffering, which is joy!I am not thankless for the spell it brings,Though tears must be told down for the charmed toy.
No; while soul, sky, and music bleed together,Let me give thanks even for those griefs in me,The restless windward stirrings of whose featherProve them the brood of immortality.
My soul is quitted of death-neighbouring swoon,Who shall not slake her immitigable scarsUntil she hear "My sister!" from the moon,And take the kindred kisses of the stars.
Virtue may unlock hell, or evenA sin turn in the wards of Heaven,(As ethics of the text-book go),So little men their own deeds know,Or through the intricatemêléeGuess whitherward draws the battle-sway;So little, if they know the deed,Discern what therefrom shall succeed.To wisest moralists 'tis but givenTo work rough border-law of Heaven,Within this narrow life of ours,These marches 'twixt delimitless Powers.Is it, if Heaven the future showed,Is it the all-severest modeTo see ourselves with the eyes of God?God rather grant, at His assize,He see us not with our own eyes!Heaven, which man's generations draws,Nor deviates into replicas,Must of as deep diversityIn judgement as creation be.There is no expeditious roadTo pack and label men for God,And save them by the barrel-load.Some may perchance, with strange surprise,Have blundered into Paradise.In vasty dusk of life abroad,They fondly thought to err from God,Nor knew the circle that they trod;And, wandering all the night about,Found them at morn where they set out.Death dawned; Heaven lay in prospect wide:—Lo! they were standing by His side!
Virtue may unlock hell, or evenA sin turn in the wards of Heaven,(As ethics of the text-book go),So little men their own deeds know,Or through the intricatemêléeGuess whitherward draws the battle-sway;So little, if they know the deed,Discern what therefrom shall succeed.To wisest moralists 'tis but givenTo work rough border-law of Heaven,Within this narrow life of ours,These marches 'twixt delimitless Powers.Is it, if Heaven the future showed,Is it the all-severest modeTo see ourselves with the eyes of God?God rather grant, at His assize,He see us not with our own eyes!
Heaven, which man's generations draws,Nor deviates into replicas,Must of as deep diversityIn judgement as creation be.There is no expeditious roadTo pack and label men for God,And save them by the barrel-load.Some may perchance, with strange surprise,Have blundered into Paradise.In vasty dusk of life abroad,They fondly thought to err from God,Nor knew the circle that they trod;And, wandering all the night about,Found them at morn where they set out.Death dawned; Heaven lay in prospect wide:—Lo! they were standing by His side!
The windy trammel of her dress,Her blown locks, took my soul in mesh.God's breath they spake, with visiblenessThat stirred the raiment of her flesh:And sensible, as her blown locks were,Beyond the precincts of her formI felt the woman flow from her—A calm of intempestuous storm.I failed against the affluent tide;Out of this abject earth of meI was translated and enskiedInto the heavenly-regioned She.Now of that vision I bereavenThis knowledge keep, that may not dim:—Short arm needs man to reach to Heaven,So ready is Heaven to stoop to him;Which sets, to measure of man's feet,No alien Tree for trysting-place;And who can read, may read the sweetDirection in his Lady's face.
The windy trammel of her dress,Her blown locks, took my soul in mesh.God's breath they spake, with visiblenessThat stirred the raiment of her flesh:
And sensible, as her blown locks were,Beyond the precincts of her formI felt the woman flow from her—A calm of intempestuous storm.
I failed against the affluent tide;Out of this abject earth of meI was translated and enskiedInto the heavenly-regioned She.
Now of that vision I bereavenThis knowledge keep, that may not dim:—Short arm needs man to reach to Heaven,So ready is Heaven to stoop to him;
Which sets, to measure of man's feet,No alien Tree for trysting-place;And who can read, may read the sweetDirection in his Lady's face.
What heart could have thought you?—Past our devisal(O filigree petal!)Fashioned so purely,Fragilely, surely,From what ParadisalImagineless metal,Too costly for cost?Who hammered you, wrought you,From argentine vapour?—"God was my shaper.Passing surmisal,He hammered, He wrought me,From curled silver vapour,To lust of His mind:—Thou could'st not have thought me!So purely, so palely,Tinily, surely,Mightily, frailly,Insculped and embossed,With His hammer of wind,And His graver of frost."
What heart could have thought you?—Past our devisal(O filigree petal!)Fashioned so purely,Fragilely, surely,From what ParadisalImagineless metal,Too costly for cost?Who hammered you, wrought you,From argentine vapour?—"God was my shaper.Passing surmisal,He hammered, He wrought me,From curled silver vapour,To lust of His mind:—Thou could'st not have thought me!So purely, so palely,Tinily, surely,Mightily, frailly,Insculped and embossed,With His hammer of wind,And His graver of frost."
Lo, in the sanctuaried East,Day, a dedicated priestIn all his robes pontifical exprest,Lifteth slowly, lifteth sweetly,From out its Orient tabernacle drawn,Yon orbèd sacrament confestWhich sprinkles benediction through the dawn;And when the grave procession's ceased,The earth with due illustrious riteBlessed,—ere the frail fingers featlyOf twilight, violet-cassocked acolyte,His sacerdotal stoles unvest—Sets, for high close of the mysterious feast,The sun in august exposition meetlyWithin the flaming monstrance of the West.God, whom none may live and mark,Borne within thy radiant ark!—While the Earth, a joyous David,Dances before thee from the dawn to dark.The moon, O leave, pale ruined Eve;Behold her fair and greater daughter[C]Offers to thee her fruitful water,Which at thy first whiteAveshall conceive!Thy gazes do on simple herDesirable allures confer;What happy comelinesses riseBeneath thy beautifying eyes!Who was, indeed, at first a maidSuch as, with sighs, misgives she is not fair,And secret views herself afraid,Till flatteries sweet provoke the charms they swear:Yea, thy gazes, blissful lover,Make the beauties they discover!What dainty guiles and treacheries caughtFrom artful prompting of love's artless thoughtHer lowly loveliness teach her to adorn,When thy plumes shiver against the conscious gates of morn!And so the love which is thy dower,Earth, though her first-frightened breastAgainst the exigent boon protest,(For she, poor maid, of her own powerHas nothing in herself, not even love,But an unwitting void thereof),Gives back to thee in sanctities of flower;And holy odours do her bosom invest,That sweeter grows for being prest:Though dear recoil, the tremorous nurse of joy,From thine embrace still startles coy,Till Phosphor lead, at thy returning hour,The laughing captive from the wishing West.Nor the majestic heavens lessThy formidable sweets approve,Thy dreads and thy delights confessThat do draw, and that remove.Thou as a lion roar'st, O Sun,Upon thy satellites' vexèd heels;Before thy terrible hunt thy planets run;Each in his frighted orbit wheels,Each flies through inassuageable chase,Since the hunt o' the world begun,The puissant approaches of thy face,And yet thy radiant leash he feels.Since the hunt o' the world begun,Lashed with terror, leashed with longing,The mighty course is ever run;Pricked with terror, leashed with longing,Thy rein they love, and thy rebuke they shun.Since the hunt o' the world began,With love that trembleth, fear that loveth,Thou join'st the woman to the man;And Life with DeathIn obscure nuptials moveth,Commingling alien, yet affinèd, breath.Thou art the incarnated LightWhose Sire is aboriginal, and beyondDeath and resurgence of our day and night;From him is thy vicegerent wandWith double potence of the black and white.Giver of Love, and Beauty, and Desire,The terror, and the loveliness, and purging,The deathfulness and lifefulness of fire!Samson's riddling meanings mergingIn thy twofold sceptre meet:Out of thy minatory might,Burning Lion, burning Lion,Comes the honey of all sweet,And out of thee, the eater, comes forth meat.And though, by thine alternate breath,Every kiss thou dost inspireEchoethBack from the windy vaultages of death;Yet thy clear warranty aboveAugurs the wings of death too mustOccult reverberations stir of loveCrescent and life incredible;That even the kisses of the justGo down not unresurgent to the dust.Yea, not a kiss which I have given,But shall triúmph upon my lips in heaven,Or cling a shameful fungus there in hell.Know'st thou me not, O Sun? Yea, wellThou know'st the ancient miracle,The children know'st of Zeus and May;And still thou teachest them, O splendent Brother,To incarnate, the antique way,The truth which is their heritage from their SireIn sweet disguise of flesh from their sweet Mother.My fingers thou hast taught to conThy flame-chorded psalterion,Till I can translate into mortal wire—Till I can translate passing well—The heavenly harping harmony,Melodious, sealed, inaudible,Which makes the dulcet psalter of the world's desire.Thou whisperest in the Moon's white ear,And she does whisper into mine,—By night together, I and she—With her virgin voice divine,The things I cannot half so sweetly tellAs she can sweetly speak, I sweetly hear.By her, the Woman, does Earth live, O Lord,Yet she for Earth, and both in thee.Light out of light!Resplendent and prevailing WordOf the Unheard!Not unto thee, great Image, not to theeDid the wise heathen bend an idle knee;And in an age of faith grown froreIf I too shall adore,Be it accounted unto me,A bright sciential idolatry!God has given thee visible thundersTo utter thine apocalypse of wonders,And what want I of prophecy,That at the sounding from thy stationOf thy flagrant trumpet, seeThe seals that melt, the open revelation?Or who a God-persuading angel needs,That only heedsThe rhetoric of thy burning deeds?Which but to sing, if it may be,In worship-warranting moiety,So I would winIn such a song as hath withinA smouldering core of mystery,Brimmèd with nimbler meanings upThan hasty Gideons in their hands may sup;—Lo, my suit pleadsThat thou, Isaian coal of fire,Touch from yon altar my poor mouth's desire,And the relucent song take for thy sacred meeds.To thine own shapeThou round'st the chrysolite of the grape,Bind'st thy gold lightnings in his veins;Thou storest the white garners of the rains.Destroyer and preserver, thouWho medicinest sickness, and to healthArt the unthankèd marrow of its wealth;To those apparent sovereignties we bowAnd bright appurtenances of thy brow!Thy proper blood dost thou not give,That Earth, the gusty Mænad, drink and dance?Art thou not life of them that live?Yea, in glad twinkling advent, thou dost dwellWithin our body as a tabernacle!Thou bittest with thine ordinanceThe jaws of Time, and thou dost meteThe unsustainable treading of his feet.Thou to thy spousal universeArt Husband, she thy Wife and Church;Who in most dusk and vidual curch,Her Lord being hence,Keeps her cold sorrows by thy hearse.The heavens renew their innocenceAnd morning stateBut by thy sacrament communicate;Their weeping night the symbol of our prayers,Our darkened search,And sinful vigil desolate.Yea, biune in imploring dumb,Essential Heavens and corporal Earth await;The Spirit and the Bride say: Come!Lo, of thy Magians I the leastHaste with my gold, my incenses and myrrhs,To thy desired epiphany, from the spicedRegions and odorous of Song's traded East.Thou, for the life of all that liveThe victim daily born and sacrificed;To whom the pinion of this longing verseBeats but with fire which first thyself did give,To thee, O Sun—or is 't perchance, to Christ?Ay, if men say that on all high heaven's faceThe saintly signs I traceWhich round my stolèd altars hold their solemn place,Amen, amen! For oh, how could it be,—When I with wingèd feet had runThrough all the windy earth about,Quested its secret of the sun,And heard what thing the stars together shout,—I should not heed thereoutConsenting counsel won:—"By this, O Singer, know we if thou see.When men shall say to thee: Lo! Christ is here,When men shall say to thee: Lo! Christ is there,Believe them: yea, and this—then art thou seer,When all thy crying clearIs but: Lo here! lo there!—ah me, lo everywhere!"
Lo, in the sanctuaried East,Day, a dedicated priestIn all his robes pontifical exprest,Lifteth slowly, lifteth sweetly,From out its Orient tabernacle drawn,Yon orbèd sacrament confestWhich sprinkles benediction through the dawn;And when the grave procession's ceased,The earth with due illustrious riteBlessed,—ere the frail fingers featlyOf twilight, violet-cassocked acolyte,His sacerdotal stoles unvest—Sets, for high close of the mysterious feast,The sun in august exposition meetlyWithin the flaming monstrance of the West.
God, whom none may live and mark,Borne within thy radiant ark!—While the Earth, a joyous David,Dances before thee from the dawn to dark.The moon, O leave, pale ruined Eve;Behold her fair and greater daughter[C]Offers to thee her fruitful water,Which at thy first whiteAveshall conceive!Thy gazes do on simple herDesirable allures confer;What happy comelinesses riseBeneath thy beautifying eyes!Who was, indeed, at first a maidSuch as, with sighs, misgives she is not fair,And secret views herself afraid,Till flatteries sweet provoke the charms they swear:Yea, thy gazes, blissful lover,Make the beauties they discover!What dainty guiles and treacheries caughtFrom artful prompting of love's artless thoughtHer lowly loveliness teach her to adorn,When thy plumes shiver against the conscious gates of morn!
And so the love which is thy dower,Earth, though her first-frightened breastAgainst the exigent boon protest,(For she, poor maid, of her own powerHas nothing in herself, not even love,But an unwitting void thereof),Gives back to thee in sanctities of flower;And holy odours do her bosom invest,That sweeter grows for being prest:Though dear recoil, the tremorous nurse of joy,From thine embrace still startles coy,Till Phosphor lead, at thy returning hour,The laughing captive from the wishing West.
Nor the majestic heavens lessThy formidable sweets approve,Thy dreads and thy delights confessThat do draw, and that remove.Thou as a lion roar'st, O Sun,Upon thy satellites' vexèd heels;Before thy terrible hunt thy planets run;Each in his frighted orbit wheels,Each flies through inassuageable chase,Since the hunt o' the world begun,The puissant approaches of thy face,And yet thy radiant leash he feels.Since the hunt o' the world begun,Lashed with terror, leashed with longing,The mighty course is ever run;Pricked with terror, leashed with longing,Thy rein they love, and thy rebuke they shun.Since the hunt o' the world began,With love that trembleth, fear that loveth,Thou join'st the woman to the man;And Life with DeathIn obscure nuptials moveth,Commingling alien, yet affinèd, breath.
Thou art the incarnated LightWhose Sire is aboriginal, and beyondDeath and resurgence of our day and night;From him is thy vicegerent wandWith double potence of the black and white.Giver of Love, and Beauty, and Desire,The terror, and the loveliness, and purging,The deathfulness and lifefulness of fire!Samson's riddling meanings mergingIn thy twofold sceptre meet:Out of thy minatory might,Burning Lion, burning Lion,Comes the honey of all sweet,And out of thee, the eater, comes forth meat.And though, by thine alternate breath,Every kiss thou dost inspireEchoethBack from the windy vaultages of death;Yet thy clear warranty aboveAugurs the wings of death too mustOccult reverberations stir of loveCrescent and life incredible;That even the kisses of the justGo down not unresurgent to the dust.Yea, not a kiss which I have given,But shall triúmph upon my lips in heaven,Or cling a shameful fungus there in hell.Know'st thou me not, O Sun? Yea, wellThou know'st the ancient miracle,The children know'st of Zeus and May;And still thou teachest them, O splendent Brother,To incarnate, the antique way,The truth which is their heritage from their SireIn sweet disguise of flesh from their sweet Mother.My fingers thou hast taught to conThy flame-chorded psalterion,Till I can translate into mortal wire—Till I can translate passing well—The heavenly harping harmony,Melodious, sealed, inaudible,Which makes the dulcet psalter of the world's desire.Thou whisperest in the Moon's white ear,And she does whisper into mine,—By night together, I and she—With her virgin voice divine,The things I cannot half so sweetly tellAs she can sweetly speak, I sweetly hear.
By her, the Woman, does Earth live, O Lord,Yet she for Earth, and both in thee.Light out of light!Resplendent and prevailing WordOf the Unheard!Not unto thee, great Image, not to theeDid the wise heathen bend an idle knee;And in an age of faith grown froreIf I too shall adore,Be it accounted unto me,A bright sciential idolatry!God has given thee visible thundersTo utter thine apocalypse of wonders,And what want I of prophecy,That at the sounding from thy stationOf thy flagrant trumpet, seeThe seals that melt, the open revelation?Or who a God-persuading angel needs,That only heedsThe rhetoric of thy burning deeds?Which but to sing, if it may be,In worship-warranting moiety,So I would winIn such a song as hath withinA smouldering core of mystery,Brimmèd with nimbler meanings upThan hasty Gideons in their hands may sup;—Lo, my suit pleadsThat thou, Isaian coal of fire,Touch from yon altar my poor mouth's desire,And the relucent song take for thy sacred meeds.
To thine own shapeThou round'st the chrysolite of the grape,Bind'st thy gold lightnings in his veins;Thou storest the white garners of the rains.Destroyer and preserver, thouWho medicinest sickness, and to healthArt the unthankèd marrow of its wealth;To those apparent sovereignties we bowAnd bright appurtenances of thy brow!Thy proper blood dost thou not give,That Earth, the gusty Mænad, drink and dance?Art thou not life of them that live?Yea, in glad twinkling advent, thou dost dwellWithin our body as a tabernacle!Thou bittest with thine ordinanceThe jaws of Time, and thou dost meteThe unsustainable treading of his feet.Thou to thy spousal universeArt Husband, she thy Wife and Church;Who in most dusk and vidual curch,Her Lord being hence,Keeps her cold sorrows by thy hearse.The heavens renew their innocenceAnd morning stateBut by thy sacrament communicate;Their weeping night the symbol of our prayers,Our darkened search,And sinful vigil desolate.
Yea, biune in imploring dumb,Essential Heavens and corporal Earth await;The Spirit and the Bride say: Come!Lo, of thy Magians I the leastHaste with my gold, my incenses and myrrhs,To thy desired epiphany, from the spicedRegions and odorous of Song's traded East.Thou, for the life of all that liveThe victim daily born and sacrificed;To whom the pinion of this longing verseBeats but with fire which first thyself did give,To thee, O Sun—or is 't perchance, to Christ?
Ay, if men say that on all high heaven's faceThe saintly signs I traceWhich round my stolèd altars hold their solemn place,Amen, amen! For oh, how could it be,—When I with wingèd feet had runThrough all the windy earth about,Quested its secret of the sun,And heard what thing the stars together shout,—I should not heed thereoutConsenting counsel won:—"By this, O Singer, know we if thou see.When men shall say to thee: Lo! Christ is here,When men shall say to thee: Lo! Christ is there,Believe them: yea, and this—then art thou seer,When all thy crying clearIs but: Lo here! lo there!—ah me, lo everywhere!"
An Ode after Easter