Cast wide the folding doorways of the East,For now is light increased!And the wind-besomed chambers of the air,See they be garnished fair;And look the ways exhale some precious odours,And set ye all about wild-breathing spice,Most fit for Paradise.Now is no time for sober gravity,Season enough has Nature to be wise;But now discinct, with raiment glittering free,Shake she the ringing rafters of the skiesWith festal footing and bold joyance sweet,And let the earth be drunken and carouse!For lo, into her houseSpring is come home with her world-wandering feet,And all things are made young with young desires;And all for her is light increasedIn yellow stars and yellow daffodils,And East to West, and West to East,Fling answering welcome-fires,By dawn and day-fall, on the jocund hills.And ye, winged minstrels of her fair meinie,Being newly coated in glad livery,Upon her steps attend,And round her treading dance and without endReel your shrill lutany.What popular breath her coming does out-tellThe garrulous leaves among!What little noises stir and passFrom blade to blade along the voluble grass!O Nature, never-doneUngaped-at Pentecostal miracle,We hear thee, each man in his proper tongue!Break, elemental children, break ye looseFrom the strict frosty ruleOf grey-beard Winter's school.Vault, O young winds, vault in your tricksome coursesUpon the snowy steeds that reinless useIn cœrule pampas of the heaven to run,Foaled of the white sea-horses,Washed in the lambent waters of the sun.Let even the slug-abed snail upon the thornPut forth a conscious horn!Mine elemental co-mates, joy each one;And ah, my foster-brethren, seem not sad—No, seem not sad,That my strange heart and I should be so little glad.Suffer me at your leafy feastTo sit apart, a somewhat alien guest,And watch your mirth,Unsharing in the liberal laugh of earth;Yet with a sympathy,Begot of wholly sad and half-sweet memory—The little sweetness making grief complete;Faint wind of wings from hours that distant beat,When I, I too,Was once, O wild companions, as are you,Ran with such wilful feet.Hark to theJubilateof the birdFor them that found the dying way to life!And they have heard,And quicken to the great precursive word;Green spray showers lightly down the cascade of the larch;The graves are riven,And the Sun comes with power amid the clouds of heaven!Before his wayWent forth the trumpet of the March;Before his way, before his wayDances the pennon of the May!O earth, unchilded, widowed Earth, so longLifting in patient pine and ivy-treeMournful belief and steadfast prophecy,Behold how all things are made true!Behold your bridegroom cometh in to you,Exceeding glad and strong.Raise up your eyes, O raise your eyes abroad!No more shall you sit sole and vidual,Searching, in servile pall,Upon the hieratic night the star-sealed sense of all:Rejoice, O barren, and look forth abroad!Your children gathered back to your embraceSee with a mother's face.Look up, O mortals, and the portent heed;In every deed,Washed with new fire to their irradiant birth,Reintegrated are the heavens and earth!From sky to sod,The world's unfolded blossom smells of God.My little-worlded self! the shadows passIn this thy sister-world, as in a glass,Of all processions that revolve in thee:Not only of cyclic ManThou here discern'st the plan,Not only of cyclic Man, but of the cyclic Me.Not solely of Mortality's great yearsThe reflex just appears,But thine own bosom's year,—still circling roundIn ample and in ampler gyreToward the far completion, wherewith crowned,Love unconsumed shall chant in his own furnace-fire.How many trampled and deciduous joysEnrich thy soul for joys deciduous still,Before the distance shall fulfilCyclic unrest with solemn equipoise!Happiness is the shadow of things past,Which fools still take for that which is to be!And not all foolishly:For all the past, read true, is prophecy,And all the firsts are hauntings of some Last,And all the springs are flash-lights of one Spring.Then leaf, and flower, and fall-less fruitShall hang together on the unyellowing bough;And silence shall be Music muteFor her surchargèd heart. Hush thou!These things are far too sure that thou should'st dreamThereof, lest they appear as things that seem.Nature, enough! within thy glassToo many and too stern the shadows pass.In this delighted season, flamingFor thy resurrection-feast,Ah, more I think the long ensepulture cold,Than stony winter rolledFrom the unsealed mouth of the holy East;The snowdrop's saintly stoles less heedThan the snow-cloistered penance of the seed.'Tis the weak flesh reclaimingAgainst the ordinanceWhich yet for just the accepting spirit scans.Earth waits, and patient heaven,Self-bonded God doth waitThrice-promulgated bansOf his fair nuptial-date.And power is man's,With that great word of "wait,"To still the sea of tears,And shake the iron heart of Fate.In that one word is strongAn else, alas, much-mortal song;With sight to pass the frontier of all spheres,And voice which does my sight such wrong.Not without fortitude I waitThe dark majestical ensuitOf destiny, nor peevish rateCalm-knowledged FateI do hearFrom the revolving yearA voice which cries:"All dies;Lo, how all dies! O seer,And all things too arise:All dies, and all is born;But each resurgent morn, behold, more near thePerfect Morn."Firm is the man, and set beyond the castOf Fortune's game, and the iniquitous hour,Whose falcon soul sits fast,And not intends her high sagacious tourOr ere the quarry sighted; who looks pastTo slow much sweet from little instant sour,And in the first does always see the last.
Cast wide the folding doorways of the East,For now is light increased!And the wind-besomed chambers of the air,See they be garnished fair;And look the ways exhale some precious odours,And set ye all about wild-breathing spice,Most fit for Paradise.Now is no time for sober gravity,Season enough has Nature to be wise;But now discinct, with raiment glittering free,Shake she the ringing rafters of the skiesWith festal footing and bold joyance sweet,And let the earth be drunken and carouse!For lo, into her houseSpring is come home with her world-wandering feet,And all things are made young with young desires;And all for her is light increasedIn yellow stars and yellow daffodils,And East to West, and West to East,Fling answering welcome-fires,By dawn and day-fall, on the jocund hills.And ye, winged minstrels of her fair meinie,Being newly coated in glad livery,Upon her steps attend,And round her treading dance and without endReel your shrill lutany.
What popular breath her coming does out-tellThe garrulous leaves among!What little noises stir and passFrom blade to blade along the voluble grass!O Nature, never-doneUngaped-at Pentecostal miracle,We hear thee, each man in his proper tongue!Break, elemental children, break ye looseFrom the strict frosty ruleOf grey-beard Winter's school.Vault, O young winds, vault in your tricksome coursesUpon the snowy steeds that reinless useIn cœrule pampas of the heaven to run,Foaled of the white sea-horses,Washed in the lambent waters of the sun.Let even the slug-abed snail upon the thornPut forth a conscious horn!Mine elemental co-mates, joy each one;And ah, my foster-brethren, seem not sad—No, seem not sad,That my strange heart and I should be so little glad.Suffer me at your leafy feastTo sit apart, a somewhat alien guest,And watch your mirth,Unsharing in the liberal laugh of earth;Yet with a sympathy,Begot of wholly sad and half-sweet memory—The little sweetness making grief complete;Faint wind of wings from hours that distant beat,When I, I too,Was once, O wild companions, as are you,Ran with such wilful feet.
Hark to theJubilateof the birdFor them that found the dying way to life!And they have heard,And quicken to the great precursive word;Green spray showers lightly down the cascade of the larch;The graves are riven,And the Sun comes with power amid the clouds of heaven!Before his wayWent forth the trumpet of the March;Before his way, before his wayDances the pennon of the May!O earth, unchilded, widowed Earth, so longLifting in patient pine and ivy-treeMournful belief and steadfast prophecy,Behold how all things are made true!Behold your bridegroom cometh in to you,Exceeding glad and strong.Raise up your eyes, O raise your eyes abroad!No more shall you sit sole and vidual,Searching, in servile pall,Upon the hieratic night the star-sealed sense of all:Rejoice, O barren, and look forth abroad!Your children gathered back to your embraceSee with a mother's face.Look up, O mortals, and the portent heed;In every deed,Washed with new fire to their irradiant birth,Reintegrated are the heavens and earth!From sky to sod,The world's unfolded blossom smells of God.
My little-worlded self! the shadows passIn this thy sister-world, as in a glass,Of all processions that revolve in thee:Not only of cyclic ManThou here discern'st the plan,Not only of cyclic Man, but of the cyclic Me.Not solely of Mortality's great yearsThe reflex just appears,But thine own bosom's year,—still circling roundIn ample and in ampler gyreToward the far completion, wherewith crowned,Love unconsumed shall chant in his own furnace-fire.How many trampled and deciduous joysEnrich thy soul for joys deciduous still,Before the distance shall fulfilCyclic unrest with solemn equipoise!Happiness is the shadow of things past,Which fools still take for that which is to be!And not all foolishly:For all the past, read true, is prophecy,And all the firsts are hauntings of some Last,And all the springs are flash-lights of one Spring.Then leaf, and flower, and fall-less fruitShall hang together on the unyellowing bough;And silence shall be Music muteFor her surchargèd heart. Hush thou!These things are far too sure that thou should'st dreamThereof, lest they appear as things that seem.
Nature, enough! within thy glassToo many and too stern the shadows pass.In this delighted season, flamingFor thy resurrection-feast,Ah, more I think the long ensepulture cold,Than stony winter rolledFrom the unsealed mouth of the holy East;The snowdrop's saintly stoles less heedThan the snow-cloistered penance of the seed.'Tis the weak flesh reclaimingAgainst the ordinanceWhich yet for just the accepting spirit scans.Earth waits, and patient heaven,Self-bonded God doth waitThrice-promulgated bansOf his fair nuptial-date.And power is man's,With that great word of "wait,"To still the sea of tears,And shake the iron heart of Fate.In that one word is strongAn else, alas, much-mortal song;With sight to pass the frontier of all spheres,And voice which does my sight such wrong.
Not without fortitude I waitThe dark majestical ensuitOf destiny, nor peevish rateCalm-knowledged Fate
I do hearFrom the revolving yearA voice which cries:"All dies;Lo, how all dies! O seer,And all things too arise:All dies, and all is born;But each resurgent morn, behold, more near thePerfect Morn."
Firm is the man, and set beyond the castOf Fortune's game, and the iniquitous hour,Whose falcon soul sits fast,And not intends her high sagacious tourOr ere the quarry sighted; who looks pastTo slow much sweet from little instant sour,And in the first does always see the last.
On him the unpetitioned heavens descend,Who heaven on earth proposes not for end;The perilous and celestial excessTaking with peace, lacking with thankfulness.Bliss in extreme befits thee not, untilThou'rt not extreme in bliss; be equal still:Sweets to be granted think thyself unmeetTill thou have learned to hold sweet not too sweet.This thing not far is he from wise in artWho teacheth; nor who doth, from wise in heart.
On him the unpetitioned heavens descend,Who heaven on earth proposes not for end;The perilous and celestial excessTaking with peace, lacking with thankfulness.Bliss in extreme befits thee not, untilThou'rt not extreme in bliss; be equal still:Sweets to be granted think thyself unmeetTill thou have learned to hold sweet not too sweet.
This thing not far is he from wise in artWho teacheth; nor who doth, from wise in heart.
"Thou needst not make new songs, but say the old."—Cowley.
"Mortals, that behold a Woman,Rising 'twixt the Moon and Sun;Who am I the heavens assume? anAll am I, and I am one."Multitudinous ascend I,Dreadful as a battle arrayed,For I bear you whither tend I;Ye are I: be undismayed!I, the Ark that for the gravenTables of the Law was made;Man's own heart was one, one Heaven,Both within my womb were laid.For there Anteros with ErosHeaven with man conjoinèd was,—Twin-stone of the Law,Ischyros,Agios Athanatos."I, the flesh-girt ParadisesGardenered by the Adam new,Daintied o'er with sweet devicesWhich He loveth, for He grew.I, the boundless strict savannahWhich God's leaping feet go through;I, the heaven whence the Manna,Weary Israel, slid on you!He the Anteros and Eros,I the body, He the Cross;He upbeareth me,Ischyros,Agios Athanatos!"I am Daniel's mystic Mountain,Whence the mighty stone was rolled;I am the four Rivers' fountain,Watering Paradise of old;Cloud down-raining the Just One am,Danae of the Shower of Gold;I the Hostel of the Sun am;He the Lamb, and I the Fold.He the Anteros and Eros,I the body, He the Cross;He is fast to me,Ischyros,Agios Athanatos!"I, the presence-hall where AngelsDo enwheel their placèd King—Even my thoughts which, without change else,Cyclic burn and cyclic sing.To the hollow of Heaven transplanted,I a breathing Eden spring,Where with venom all outpantedLies the slimed Curse shrivelling.For the brazen Serpent clear onThat old fangèd knowledge shone;I to Wisdom rise,Ischyron,Agion Athanaton!"Then commanded and spake to meHe who framed all things that be;And my Maker entered through me,In my tent His rest took He.Lo! He standeth, Spouse and Brother,I to Him, and He to me,Who upraised me where my motherFell, beneath the apple-tree.Risen 'twixt Anteros and Eros,Blood and Water, Moon and Sun,He upbears me, HeIschyros,I bear Him, theAthanaton!"Where is laid the Lord arisen?In the light we walk in gloom.Though the sun has burst his prison,We know not his biding-room.Tell us where the Lord sojourneth,For we find an empty tomb."Whence He sprung, there He returneth,Mystic Sun,—the Virgin's Womb."Hidden Sun, His beams so near us,Cloud enpillared as He wasFrom of old, there He,Ischyros,Waits our search,Athanatos!Camp of Angels! Well we evenOf this thing may doubtful be,—If thou art assumed to Heaven,Or is Heaven assumed to thee!Consummatum.Christ the promised,Thy maiden realm is won, O Strong!Since to such sweet Kingdom comest,Remember me, poor Thief of Song!Cadent fails the stars along:—"Mortals, that behold a womanRising 'twixt the Moon and Sun;Who am I the heavens assume? anAll am I, and I am one."
"Mortals, that behold a Woman,Rising 'twixt the Moon and Sun;Who am I the heavens assume? anAll am I, and I am one.
"Multitudinous ascend I,Dreadful as a battle arrayed,For I bear you whither tend I;Ye are I: be undismayed!I, the Ark that for the gravenTables of the Law was made;Man's own heart was one, one Heaven,Both within my womb were laid.For there Anteros with ErosHeaven with man conjoinèd was,—Twin-stone of the Law,Ischyros,Agios Athanatos.
"I, the flesh-girt ParadisesGardenered by the Adam new,Daintied o'er with sweet devicesWhich He loveth, for He grew.I, the boundless strict savannahWhich God's leaping feet go through;I, the heaven whence the Manna,Weary Israel, slid on you!He the Anteros and Eros,I the body, He the Cross;He upbeareth me,Ischyros,Agios Athanatos!
"I am Daniel's mystic Mountain,Whence the mighty stone was rolled;I am the four Rivers' fountain,Watering Paradise of old;Cloud down-raining the Just One am,Danae of the Shower of Gold;I the Hostel of the Sun am;He the Lamb, and I the Fold.He the Anteros and Eros,I the body, He the Cross;He is fast to me,Ischyros,Agios Athanatos!
"I, the presence-hall where AngelsDo enwheel their placèd King—Even my thoughts which, without change else,Cyclic burn and cyclic sing.To the hollow of Heaven transplanted,I a breathing Eden spring,Where with venom all outpantedLies the slimed Curse shrivelling.For the brazen Serpent clear onThat old fangèd knowledge shone;I to Wisdom rise,Ischyron,Agion Athanaton!
"Then commanded and spake to meHe who framed all things that be;And my Maker entered through me,In my tent His rest took He.Lo! He standeth, Spouse and Brother,I to Him, and He to me,Who upraised me where my motherFell, beneath the apple-tree.Risen 'twixt Anteros and Eros,Blood and Water, Moon and Sun,He upbears me, HeIschyros,I bear Him, theAthanaton!"
Where is laid the Lord arisen?In the light we walk in gloom.Though the sun has burst his prison,We know not his biding-room.Tell us where the Lord sojourneth,For we find an empty tomb."Whence He sprung, there He returneth,Mystic Sun,—the Virgin's Womb."Hidden Sun, His beams so near us,Cloud enpillared as He wasFrom of old, there He,Ischyros,Waits our search,Athanatos!
Camp of Angels! Well we evenOf this thing may doubtful be,—If thou art assumed to Heaven,Or is Heaven assumed to thee!Consummatum.Christ the promised,Thy maiden realm is won, O Strong!Since to such sweet Kingdom comest,Remember me, poor Thief of Song!
Cadent fails the stars along:—"Mortals, that behold a womanRising 'twixt the Moon and Sun;Who am I the heavens assume? anAll am I, and I am one."
In nescientness, in nescientness,Mother, we put these fleshly lendings onThou yield'st to thy poor children; took thy giftOf life, which must, in all the after daysBe craved again with tears,—With fresh and still petitionary tears.Being once bound thine almsmen for that gift,We are bound to beggary; nor our own can callThe journal dole of customary life,But after suit obsequious for 't to thee.Indeed this flesh, O Mother,A beggar's gown, a client's badging,We find, which from thy hands we simply took,Naught dreaming of the after penury,In nescientness.In a little thought, in a little thought,We stand and eye thee in a grave dismay,With sad and doubtful questioning, when firstThou speak'st to us as men: like sons who hearNewly their mother's history, unthoughtBefore, and say—"She is not as we dreamed:Ah me! we are beguiled!" What art thou, then,That art not our conceiving? Art thou notToo old for thy young children? Or perchance,Keep'st thou a youth perpetual-burnishableBeyond thy sons decrepit? It is longSince Time was first a fledgling;Yet thou may'st be but as a pendant bullaAgainst his stripling bosom swung. Alack!For that we seem indeedTo have slipped the world's great leaping-time, and comeUpon thy pinched and dozing days: these weeds,These corporal leavings, thou not cast'st us new,Fresh from thy craftship, like the lilies' coats,But foist'st us offWith hasty tarnished piecings negligent,Snippets and wasteFrom old ancestral wearings,That have seen sorrier usage; remainder-fleshAfter our father's surfeits; nay with chinks,Some of us, that if speech may have free leaveOur souls go out at elbows. We are sadWith more than our sires' heaviness, and withMore than their weakness weak; we shall not beMighty with all their mightiness, nor shall notRejoice with all their joy. Ay, Mother! Mother!What is this Man, thy darling kissed and cuffed,Thou lustingly engender'st,To sweat, and make his brag, and rot,Crowned with all honour and all shamefulness?From nightly towersHe dogs the secret footsteps of the heavens,Sifts in his hands the stars, weighs them as gold-dust,And yet is he successive unto nothingBut patrimony of a little mould,And entail of four planks. Thou hast made his mouthAvid of all dominion and all mightiness,All sorrow, all delight, all topless grandeurs,All beauty, and all starry majesties,And dim transtellar things;—even that it may,Filled in the ending with a puff of dust,Confess—"It is enough." The world left emptyWhat that poor mouthful crams. His heart is buildedFor pride, for potency, infinity,All heights, all deeps, and all immensities,Arrased with purple like the house of kings,To stall the grey-rat, and the carrion-wormStatelily lodge. Mother of mysteries!Sayer of dark sayings in a thousand tongues,Who bringest forth no saying yet so darkAs we ourselves, thy darkest! We the young,In a little thought, in a little thought,At last confront thee, and ourselves in thee,And wake disgarmented of glory: as oneOn a mount standing, and against him stands,On the mount adverse, crowned with westering rays,The golden sun, and they two brotherlyGaze each on each;He faring downTo the dull vale, his Godhead peels from himTill he can scarcely spurn the pebble—For nothingness of new-found mortality—That mutinies against his gallèd foot.Littly he sets him to the daily way,With all around the valleys growing grave,And known things changed and strange; but he holds on,Though all the land of light be widowèd,In a little thought.In a little dust, in a little dust,Earth, thou reclaim'st us, who do all our livesFind of thee but Egyptian villeinage.Thou dost this body, this enhavocked realm,Subject to ancient and ancestral shadows;Descended passions sway it; it is distraughtWith ghostly usurpation, dinned and frettedWith the still-tyrannous dead; a haunted tenement,Peopled from barrows and outworn ossuaries.Thou giv'st us life not half so willinglyAs thou undost thy giving; thou that teem'stThe stealthy terror of the sinuous pard,The lion maned with curlèd puissance,The serpent, and all fair strong beasts of ravin,Thyself most fair and potent beast of ravin;And thy great eaters thou, the greatest, eat'st.Thou hast devoured mammoth and mastodon,And many a floating bank of fangs,The scaly scourges of thy primal brine,And the tower-crested plesiosaure.Thou fill'st thy mouth with nations, gorgest slowOn purple æons of kings; man's hulking towersAre carcase for thee, and to modern sunDisglutt'st their splintered bones.Rabble of Pharaohs and ArsacidæKeep their cold house within thee; thou hast sucked downHow many Ninevehs and HecatompyloiAnd perished cities whose great phantasmataO'erbrow the silent citizens of Dis:—Hast not thy fill?Tarry awhile, lean Earth, for thou shalt drinkEven till thy dull throat sicken,The draught thou grow'st most fat on; hear'st thou notThe world's knives bickering in their sheaths? O patience!Much offal of a foul world comes thy way,And man's superfluous cloud shall soon be laidIn a little blood.In a little peace, in a little peace,Thou dost rebate thy rigid purposesOf imposed being, and relenting, mend'stToo much, with nought. The westering Phœbus' horsePaws i' the lucent dust as when he shockedThe East with rising; O how may I traceIn this decline that morning when we didSport 'twixt the claws of newly-whelped existence,Which had not yet learned rending? we did thenDivinely stand, not knowing yet against usSentence had passed of life, nor commutationPetitioning into death. What's he that ofThe Free State argues? Tellus! bid him stoop,Even where the lowhic jacetanswers him;Thus low, O Man! there's freedom's seignory,Tellus' most reverend sole free commonweal,And model deeply-policied: there noneStands on precedence, nor ambitiouslyWoos the impartial worm, whose favours kissWith liberal largesse all; there each is freeTo be e'en what he must, which here did striveSo much to be he could not; there all doTheir uses just, with no flown questioning.To be took by the hand of equal earthThey doff her livery, slip to the worm,Which lacqueys them, their suits of maintenance,And that soiled workaday apparel cast,Put on condition: Death's ungentle buffetAlone makes ceremonial manumission;So are the heavenly statutes set, and thoseUranian tables of the primal Law.In a little peace, in a little peace,Like fierce beasts that a common thirst makes brothers,We draw together to one hid dark lake;In a little peace, in a little peace,We drain with all our burthens of dishonourInto the cleansing sands o' the thirsty grave.The fiery pomps, brave exhalations,And all the glistering shows o' the seeming world,Which the sight aches at, we unwinking seeThrough the smoked glass of Death; Death, wherewith's finedThe muddy wine of life; that earth doth purgeOf her plethora of man; Death, that doth flushThe cumbered gutters of humanity;Nothing, of nothing king, with front uncrowned,Whose hand holds crownets; playmate swart o' the strong;Tenebrous moon that flux and refluence drawsOf the high-tided man; skull-housèd aspThat stings the heel of kings; true Fount of Youth,Where he that dips is deathless; being's drone-pipe;Whose nostril turns to blight the shrivelled stars,And thicks the lusty breathing of the sun;Pontifical Death, that doth the crevasse bridgeTo the steep and trifid God; one mortal birthThat broker is of immortality.Under this dreadful brother uterine,This kinsman feared, Tellus, behold me come,Thy son stern-nursed; who mortal-motherlike,To turn thy weanlings' mouth averse, embitter'stThine over-childed breast. Now, mortal-sonlike,I thou hast suckled, Mother, I at lastShall sustenant be to thee. Here I untrammel,Here I pluck loose the body's cerementing,And break the tomb of life; here I shake offThe bur o' the world, man's congregation shun,And to the antique order of the deadI take the tongueless vows: my cell is setHere in thy bosom; my little trouble is endedIn a little peace.
In nescientness, in nescientness,Mother, we put these fleshly lendings onThou yield'st to thy poor children; took thy giftOf life, which must, in all the after daysBe craved again with tears,—With fresh and still petitionary tears.Being once bound thine almsmen for that gift,We are bound to beggary; nor our own can callThe journal dole of customary life,But after suit obsequious for 't to thee.Indeed this flesh, O Mother,A beggar's gown, a client's badging,We find, which from thy hands we simply took,Naught dreaming of the after penury,In nescientness.
In a little thought, in a little thought,We stand and eye thee in a grave dismay,With sad and doubtful questioning, when firstThou speak'st to us as men: like sons who hearNewly their mother's history, unthoughtBefore, and say—"She is not as we dreamed:Ah me! we are beguiled!" What art thou, then,That art not our conceiving? Art thou notToo old for thy young children? Or perchance,Keep'st thou a youth perpetual-burnishableBeyond thy sons decrepit? It is longSince Time was first a fledgling;Yet thou may'st be but as a pendant bullaAgainst his stripling bosom swung. Alack!For that we seem indeedTo have slipped the world's great leaping-time, and comeUpon thy pinched and dozing days: these weeds,These corporal leavings, thou not cast'st us new,Fresh from thy craftship, like the lilies' coats,But foist'st us offWith hasty tarnished piecings negligent,Snippets and wasteFrom old ancestral wearings,That have seen sorrier usage; remainder-fleshAfter our father's surfeits; nay with chinks,Some of us, that if speech may have free leaveOur souls go out at elbows. We are sadWith more than our sires' heaviness, and withMore than their weakness weak; we shall not beMighty with all their mightiness, nor shall notRejoice with all their joy. Ay, Mother! Mother!
What is this Man, thy darling kissed and cuffed,Thou lustingly engender'st,To sweat, and make his brag, and rot,Crowned with all honour and all shamefulness?From nightly towersHe dogs the secret footsteps of the heavens,Sifts in his hands the stars, weighs them as gold-dust,And yet is he successive unto nothingBut patrimony of a little mould,And entail of four planks. Thou hast made his mouthAvid of all dominion and all mightiness,All sorrow, all delight, all topless grandeurs,All beauty, and all starry majesties,And dim transtellar things;—even that it may,Filled in the ending with a puff of dust,Confess—"It is enough." The world left emptyWhat that poor mouthful crams. His heart is buildedFor pride, for potency, infinity,All heights, all deeps, and all immensities,Arrased with purple like the house of kings,To stall the grey-rat, and the carrion-wormStatelily lodge. Mother of mysteries!Sayer of dark sayings in a thousand tongues,Who bringest forth no saying yet so darkAs we ourselves, thy darkest! We the young,In a little thought, in a little thought,At last confront thee, and ourselves in thee,And wake disgarmented of glory: as oneOn a mount standing, and against him stands,On the mount adverse, crowned with westering rays,The golden sun, and they two brotherlyGaze each on each;He faring downTo the dull vale, his Godhead peels from himTill he can scarcely spurn the pebble—For nothingness of new-found mortality—That mutinies against his gallèd foot.Littly he sets him to the daily way,With all around the valleys growing grave,And known things changed and strange; but he holds on,Though all the land of light be widowèd,In a little thought.
In a little dust, in a little dust,Earth, thou reclaim'st us, who do all our livesFind of thee but Egyptian villeinage.Thou dost this body, this enhavocked realm,Subject to ancient and ancestral shadows;Descended passions sway it; it is distraughtWith ghostly usurpation, dinned and frettedWith the still-tyrannous dead; a haunted tenement,Peopled from barrows and outworn ossuaries.Thou giv'st us life not half so willinglyAs thou undost thy giving; thou that teem'stThe stealthy terror of the sinuous pard,The lion maned with curlèd puissance,The serpent, and all fair strong beasts of ravin,Thyself most fair and potent beast of ravin;And thy great eaters thou, the greatest, eat'st.Thou hast devoured mammoth and mastodon,And many a floating bank of fangs,The scaly scourges of thy primal brine,And the tower-crested plesiosaure.Thou fill'st thy mouth with nations, gorgest slowOn purple æons of kings; man's hulking towersAre carcase for thee, and to modern sunDisglutt'st their splintered bones.Rabble of Pharaohs and ArsacidæKeep their cold house within thee; thou hast sucked downHow many Ninevehs and HecatompyloiAnd perished cities whose great phantasmataO'erbrow the silent citizens of Dis:—Hast not thy fill?Tarry awhile, lean Earth, for thou shalt drinkEven till thy dull throat sicken,The draught thou grow'st most fat on; hear'st thou notThe world's knives bickering in their sheaths? O patience!Much offal of a foul world comes thy way,And man's superfluous cloud shall soon be laidIn a little blood.
In a little peace, in a little peace,Thou dost rebate thy rigid purposesOf imposed being, and relenting, mend'stToo much, with nought. The westering Phœbus' horsePaws i' the lucent dust as when he shockedThe East with rising; O how may I traceIn this decline that morning when we didSport 'twixt the claws of newly-whelped existence,Which had not yet learned rending? we did thenDivinely stand, not knowing yet against usSentence had passed of life, nor commutationPetitioning into death. What's he that ofThe Free State argues? Tellus! bid him stoop,Even where the lowhic jacetanswers him;
Thus low, O Man! there's freedom's seignory,Tellus' most reverend sole free commonweal,And model deeply-policied: there noneStands on precedence, nor ambitiouslyWoos the impartial worm, whose favours kissWith liberal largesse all; there each is freeTo be e'en what he must, which here did striveSo much to be he could not; there all doTheir uses just, with no flown questioning.To be took by the hand of equal earthThey doff her livery, slip to the worm,Which lacqueys them, their suits of maintenance,And that soiled workaday apparel cast,Put on condition: Death's ungentle buffetAlone makes ceremonial manumission;So are the heavenly statutes set, and thoseUranian tables of the primal Law.In a little peace, in a little peace,Like fierce beasts that a common thirst makes brothers,We draw together to one hid dark lake;In a little peace, in a little peace,We drain with all our burthens of dishonourInto the cleansing sands o' the thirsty grave.The fiery pomps, brave exhalations,And all the glistering shows o' the seeming world,Which the sight aches at, we unwinking seeThrough the smoked glass of Death; Death, wherewith's finedThe muddy wine of life; that earth doth purgeOf her plethora of man; Death, that doth flushThe cumbered gutters of humanity;Nothing, of nothing king, with front uncrowned,Whose hand holds crownets; playmate swart o' the strong;Tenebrous moon that flux and refluence drawsOf the high-tided man; skull-housèd aspThat stings the heel of kings; true Fount of Youth,Where he that dips is deathless; being's drone-pipe;Whose nostril turns to blight the shrivelled stars,And thicks the lusty breathing of the sun;Pontifical Death, that doth the crevasse bridgeTo the steep and trifid God; one mortal birthThat broker is of immortality.Under this dreadful brother uterine,This kinsman feared, Tellus, behold me come,Thy son stern-nursed; who mortal-motherlike,To turn thy weanlings' mouth averse, embitter'stThine over-childed breast. Now, mortal-sonlike,I thou hast suckled, Mother, I at lastShall sustenant be to thee. Here I untrammel,Here I pluck loose the body's cerementing,And break the tomb of life; here I shake offThe bur o' the world, man's congregation shun,And to the antique order of the deadI take the tongueless vows: my cell is setHere in thy bosom; my little trouble is endedIn a little peace.
This morning saw I, fled the shower,The earth reclining in a lull of power:The heavens, pursuing not their path,Lay stretched out naked after bath,Or so it seemed; field, water, tree, were still,Nor was there any purpose on the calm-browed hill.The hill, which sometimes visibly isWrought with unresting energies,Looked idly; from the musing wood,And every rock, a life renewedExhaled like an unconscious thoughtWhen poets, dreaming unperplexed,Dream that they dream of nought.Nature one hour appears a thing unsexed,Or to such serene balance broughtThat her twin natures cease their sweet alarms,And sleep in one another's arms.The sun with resting pulses seems to brood,And slacken its command upon my unurged blood.The river has not any careIts passionless water to the sea to bear;The leaves have brown content;The wall to me has freshness like a scent,And takes half animate the air,Making one life with its green moss and stain;And life with all things seems too perfect blentFor anything of life to be aware.The very shades on hill, and tree, and plain,Where they have fallen doze, and where they doze remain.No hill can idler be than I;No stone its inter-particled vibrationInvesteth with a stiller lie;No heaven with a more urgent rest betraysThe eyes that on it gaze.We are too near akin that thou shouldst cheatMe, Nature, with thy fair deceit.In poets floating like a water-flowerUpon the bosom of the glassy hour,In skies that no man sees to move,Lurk untumultuous vortices of power,For joy too native, and for agitationToo instant, too entire for sense thereof,Motion like gnats when autumn suns are low,—Perpetual as the prisoned feet of loveOn the heart's floors with painèd pace that go.From stones and poets you may know,Nothing so active is, as that which least seems so.For he, that conduit running wine of song,Then to himself does most belong,When he his mortal house unbarsTo the importunate and thronging feetThat round our corporal walls unheeded beat;Till, all containing, he exaltHis stature to the stars, or starsNarrow their heaven to his fleshly vault:When, like a city under ocean,To human things he grows a desolation,And is made a habitationFor the fluctuous universeTo lave with unimpeded motion.He scarcely frets the atmosphereWith breathing, and his body sharesThe immobility of rocks;His heart's a drop-well of tranquillity;His mind more still is than the limbs of fear,And yet its unperturbed velocityThe spirit of the simoon mocks.He round the solemn centre of his soulWheels like a dervish, while his being isStreamed with the set of the world's harmonies,In the long draft of whatsoever sphereHe lists the sweet and clearClangour of his high orbit on to roll,So gracious is his heavenly grace;And the bold stars does hear,Every one in his airy soar,For evermoreShout to each other from the peaks of space,As thwart ravines of azure shouts the mountaineer.
This morning saw I, fled the shower,The earth reclining in a lull of power:The heavens, pursuing not their path,Lay stretched out naked after bath,Or so it seemed; field, water, tree, were still,Nor was there any purpose on the calm-browed hill.
The hill, which sometimes visibly isWrought with unresting energies,Looked idly; from the musing wood,And every rock, a life renewedExhaled like an unconscious thoughtWhen poets, dreaming unperplexed,Dream that they dream of nought.Nature one hour appears a thing unsexed,Or to such serene balance broughtThat her twin natures cease their sweet alarms,And sleep in one another's arms.The sun with resting pulses seems to brood,And slacken its command upon my unurged blood.
The river has not any careIts passionless water to the sea to bear;The leaves have brown content;The wall to me has freshness like a scent,And takes half animate the air,Making one life with its green moss and stain;And life with all things seems too perfect blentFor anything of life to be aware.The very shades on hill, and tree, and plain,Where they have fallen doze, and where they doze remain.
No hill can idler be than I;No stone its inter-particled vibrationInvesteth with a stiller lie;No heaven with a more urgent rest betraysThe eyes that on it gaze.We are too near akin that thou shouldst cheatMe, Nature, with thy fair deceit.In poets floating like a water-flowerUpon the bosom of the glassy hour,In skies that no man sees to move,Lurk untumultuous vortices of power,For joy too native, and for agitationToo instant, too entire for sense thereof,Motion like gnats when autumn suns are low,—Perpetual as the prisoned feet of loveOn the heart's floors with painèd pace that go.From stones and poets you may know,Nothing so active is, as that which least seems so.
For he, that conduit running wine of song,Then to himself does most belong,When he his mortal house unbarsTo the importunate and thronging feetThat round our corporal walls unheeded beat;Till, all containing, he exaltHis stature to the stars, or starsNarrow their heaven to his fleshly vault:When, like a city under ocean,To human things he grows a desolation,And is made a habitationFor the fluctuous universeTo lave with unimpeded motion.He scarcely frets the atmosphereWith breathing, and his body sharesThe immobility of rocks;His heart's a drop-well of tranquillity;His mind more still is than the limbs of fear,And yet its unperturbed velocityThe spirit of the simoon mocks.He round the solemn centre of his soulWheels like a dervish, while his being isStreamed with the set of the world's harmonies,In the long draft of whatsoever sphereHe lists the sweet and clearClangour of his high orbit on to roll,So gracious is his heavenly grace;And the bold stars does hear,Every one in his airy soar,For evermoreShout to each other from the peaks of space,As thwart ravines of azure shouts the mountaineer.
O nothing, in this corporal earth of man,That to the imminent heaven of his high soulResponds with colour and with shadow, canLack correlated greatness. If the scrollWhere thoughts lie fast in spell of hieroglyphBe mighty through its mighty habitants;If God be in His Name; grave potence ifThe sounds unbind of hieratic chants;All's vast that vastness means. Nay, I affirmNature is whole in her least things exprest,Nor know we with what scope God builds the worm.Our towns are copied fragments from our breast;And all man's Babylons strive but to impartThe grandeurs of his Babylonian heart.
O nothing, in this corporal earth of man,That to the imminent heaven of his high soulResponds with colour and with shadow, canLack correlated greatness. If the scrollWhere thoughts lie fast in spell of hieroglyphBe mighty through its mighty habitants;If God be in His Name; grave potence ifThe sounds unbind of hieratic chants;All's vast that vastness means. Nay, I affirmNature is whole in her least things exprest,Nor know we with what scope God builds the worm.Our towns are copied fragments from our breast;And all man's Babylons strive but to impartThe grandeurs of his Babylonian heart.
Can you tell me where has hid her,Pretty Maid July?I would swear one day agoShe passed by,I would swear that I do knowThe blue bliss of her eye:"Tarry, maid, maid," I bid her;But she hastened by.Do you know where she has hid her,Maid July?Yet in truth it needs must beThe flight of her is old;Yet in truth it needs must be,For her nest, the earth, is cold.No more in the poolèd EvenWade her rosy feet,Dawn-flakes no more plash from themTo poppies 'mid the wheat.She has muddied the day's oozesWith her petulant feet;Scared the clouds that floatedAs sea-birds they were,Slow on the cœruleLulls of the air,Lulled on the luminousLevels of air:She has chidden in a petAll her stars from her;Now they wander loose and sighThrough the turbid blue,Now they wander, weep, and cry—Yea, and I too—"Where are you, sweet July,Where are you?"Who hath beheld her footprints,Or the pathway she goes?Tell me, wind, tell me, wheat,Which of you knows?Sleeps she swathed in the flushed ArcticNight of the rose?Or lie her limbs like Alp-glowOn the lily's snows?Gales, that are all-visitant,Find the runaway;And for him who findeth her(I do charge you say)I will throw largesse of broomOf this summer's mintage,I will broach a honey-bagOf the bee's best vintage.Breezes, wheat, flowers sweet,None of them knows!How then shall we lure her backFrom the way she goes?For it were a shameful thing,Saw we not this comerEre Autumn camp upon the fieldsRed with rout of Summer.When the bird quits the cage,We set the cage outside,With seed and with water,And the door wide,Haply we may win it soBack to abide.Hang her cage of earth outO'er Heaven's sunward wall,Its four gates open, winds in watchBy reinèd cars at all;Relume in hanging hedgerowsThe rain-quenched blossom,And roses sob their tears outOn the gale's warm heaving bosom;Shake the lilies till their scentOver-drip their rims,That our runaway may seeWe do know her whims:Sleek the tumbled waters outFor her travelled limbs;Strew and smooth blue night thereon,There will—O not doubt her!—The lovely sleepy lady lie,With all her stars about her!
Can you tell me where has hid her,Pretty Maid July?I would swear one day agoShe passed by,I would swear that I do knowThe blue bliss of her eye:"Tarry, maid, maid," I bid her;But she hastened by.Do you know where she has hid her,Maid July?
Yet in truth it needs must beThe flight of her is old;Yet in truth it needs must be,For her nest, the earth, is cold.No more in the poolèd EvenWade her rosy feet,Dawn-flakes no more plash from themTo poppies 'mid the wheat.
She has muddied the day's oozesWith her petulant feet;Scared the clouds that floatedAs sea-birds they were,Slow on the cœruleLulls of the air,Lulled on the luminousLevels of air:She has chidden in a petAll her stars from her;Now they wander loose and sighThrough the turbid blue,Now they wander, weep, and cry—Yea, and I too—"Where are you, sweet July,Where are you?"
Who hath beheld her footprints,Or the pathway she goes?Tell me, wind, tell me, wheat,Which of you knows?Sleeps she swathed in the flushed ArcticNight of the rose?Or lie her limbs like Alp-glowOn the lily's snows?Gales, that are all-visitant,Find the runaway;And for him who findeth her(I do charge you say)I will throw largesse of broomOf this summer's mintage,I will broach a honey-bagOf the bee's best vintage.Breezes, wheat, flowers sweet,None of them knows!How then shall we lure her backFrom the way she goes?For it were a shameful thing,Saw we not this comerEre Autumn camp upon the fieldsRed with rout of Summer.
When the bird quits the cage,We set the cage outside,With seed and with water,And the door wide,Haply we may win it soBack to abide.Hang her cage of earth outO'er Heaven's sunward wall,Its four gates open, winds in watchBy reinèd cars at all;Relume in hanging hedgerowsThe rain-quenched blossom,And roses sob their tears outOn the gale's warm heaving bosom;Shake the lilies till their scentOver-drip their rims,That our runaway may seeWe do know her whims:Sleek the tumbled waters outFor her travelled limbs;Strew and smooth blue night thereon,There will—O not doubt her!—The lovely sleepy lady lie,With all her stars about her!
His shoulder did I holdToo high that I, o'erboldWeak one,Should lean thereon.But He a little hathDeclined His stately pathAnd myFeet set more high;That the slack arm may reachHis shoulder, and faint speechStirHis unwithering hair.And bolder now and bolderI lean upon that shoulder,So dearHe is and near.And with His aureoleThe tresses of my soulAre blentIn wished content.Yea, this too gentle LoverHath flattering words to move herTo prideBy His sweet side.Ah, Love! somewhat let be!Lest my humilityGrow weakWhen Thou dost speak!Rebate Thy tender suit,Lest to herself imputeSome worthThy bride of earth!A maid too easilyConceits herself to beThose thingsHer lover sings;And being straitly wooed,Believes herself the GoodAnd FairHe seeks in her.Turn something of Thy look,And fear me with rebuke,That IMay timorouslyTake tremors in Thy arms,And with contrivèd charmsAllureA love unsure.Not to me, not to me,Builded so flawfully,O God,Thy humbling laud!Not to this man, but Man,—Universe in a span;PointOf the spheres conjoint;In whom eternallyThou, Light, dost focus Thee!—Didst paveThe way o' the wave,Rivet with stars the Heaven,For causeways to Thy drivenCarIn its coming farUnto him, only him;In Thy deific whimDidst boundThy works' great roundIn this small ring of flesh;The sky's gold-knotted meshThy wristDid only twistTo take him in that net.—Man! swinging-wicket setBetweenThe Unseen and Seen,Lo, God's two worlds immense,Of spirit and of sense,WedIn this narrow bed;Yea, and the midge's hymnAnswers the seraphimAthwartThy body's court!Great arm-fellow of God!To the ancestral clodKin,And to cherubin;Bread predilectedlyO' the worm and Deity!Hark,O God's clay-sealed Ark,To praise that fits thee, clearTo the ear within the ear,But denseTo clay-sealed sense.Thee God's great utterance bore,O secret metaphorOf whatThou dream'st no jot!Cosmic metonymy;Weak world-unshuttering key;OneSeal of Solomon!Trope that itself not scansIts huge significance,Which triesCherubic eyes.Primer where the angels allGod's grammar spell in small,Nor spellThe highest too well.Point for the great descantsOf starry disputants;EquationOf creation.Thou meaning, couldst thou see,Of all which dafteth thee;So plain,It mocks thy pain;Stone of the Law indeed,Thine own self couldst thou read,Thy blissWithin thee is.Compost of Heaven and mire,Slow foot and swift desire!Lo,To have Yes, choose No;Gird, and thou shalt unbind;Seek not, and thou shalt find;To eat,Deny thy meat;And thou shalt be fulfilledWith all sweet things unwilled:So bestGod loves to jestWith children small—a freakOf heavenly hide-and-seekFitFor thy wayward wit,Who art thyself a thingOf whim and wavering;FreeWhen His wings pen thee;Sole fully blest, to feelGod whistle thee at heel;Drunk upAs a dew-drop,When He bends down, sun-wise,Intemperable eyes;Most proud,When utterly bowed,To feel thyself and beHis dear nonentity—CaughtBeyond human thoughtIn the thunder-spout of Him,Until thy being dimAnd beDead deathlessly.Stoop, stoop; for thou dost fearThe nettle's wrathful spear,So slightArt thou of might!Rise; for Heaven hath no frownWhen thou to thee pluck'st down,Strong clod!The neck of God.
His shoulder did I holdToo high that I, o'erboldWeak one,Should lean thereon.
But He a little hathDeclined His stately pathAnd myFeet set more high;
That the slack arm may reachHis shoulder, and faint speechStirHis unwithering hair.
And bolder now and bolderI lean upon that shoulder,So dearHe is and near.
And with His aureoleThe tresses of my soulAre blentIn wished content.
Yea, this too gentle LoverHath flattering words to move herTo prideBy His sweet side.
Ah, Love! somewhat let be!Lest my humilityGrow weakWhen Thou dost speak!
Rebate Thy tender suit,Lest to herself imputeSome worthThy bride of earth!
A maid too easilyConceits herself to beThose thingsHer lover sings;
And being straitly wooed,Believes herself the GoodAnd FairHe seeks in her.
Turn something of Thy look,And fear me with rebuke,That IMay timorously
Take tremors in Thy arms,And with contrivèd charmsAllureA love unsure.
Not to me, not to me,Builded so flawfully,O God,Thy humbling laud!
Not to this man, but Man,—Universe in a span;PointOf the spheres conjoint;
In whom eternallyThou, Light, dost focus Thee!—Didst paveThe way o' the wave,
Rivet with stars the Heaven,For causeways to Thy drivenCarIn its coming far
Unto him, only him;In Thy deific whimDidst boundThy works' great round
In this small ring of flesh;The sky's gold-knotted meshThy wristDid only twist
To take him in that net.—Man! swinging-wicket setBetweenThe Unseen and Seen,
Lo, God's two worlds immense,Of spirit and of sense,WedIn this narrow bed;
Yea, and the midge's hymnAnswers the seraphimAthwartThy body's court!
Great arm-fellow of God!To the ancestral clodKin,And to cherubin;
Bread predilectedlyO' the worm and Deity!Hark,O God's clay-sealed Ark,
To praise that fits thee, clearTo the ear within the ear,But denseTo clay-sealed sense.
Thee God's great utterance bore,O secret metaphorOf whatThou dream'st no jot!
Cosmic metonymy;Weak world-unshuttering key;OneSeal of Solomon!
Trope that itself not scansIts huge significance,Which triesCherubic eyes.
Primer where the angels allGod's grammar spell in small,Nor spellThe highest too well.
Point for the great descantsOf starry disputants;EquationOf creation.
Thou meaning, couldst thou see,Of all which dafteth thee;So plain,It mocks thy pain;
Stone of the Law indeed,Thine own self couldst thou read,Thy blissWithin thee is.
Compost of Heaven and mire,Slow foot and swift desire!Lo,To have Yes, choose No;
Gird, and thou shalt unbind;Seek not, and thou shalt find;To eat,Deny thy meat;
And thou shalt be fulfilledWith all sweet things unwilled:So bestGod loves to jest
With children small—a freakOf heavenly hide-and-seekFitFor thy wayward wit,
Who art thyself a thingOf whim and wavering;FreeWhen His wings pen thee;
Sole fully blest, to feelGod whistle thee at heel;Drunk upAs a dew-drop,
When He bends down, sun-wise,Intemperable eyes;Most proud,When utterly bowed,
To feel thyself and beHis dear nonentity—CaughtBeyond human thought
In the thunder-spout of Him,Until thy being dimAnd beDead deathlessly.
Stoop, stoop; for thou dost fearThe nettle's wrathful spear,So slightArt thou of might!
Rise; for Heaven hath no frownWhen thou to thee pluck'st down,Strong clod!The neck of God.
Written for the Queen's Golden Jubilee Day, 1897