The low-voiced girls that goIn gardens of the Lord,Like flowers of the field they growIn sisterly accord.Their whispering feet are whiteAlong the leafy ways;They go in whirls of lightToo beautiful for praise.And in their band forsoothIs one to set me free—The one that touched my youth—The one God gave to me.She kindles the desireWhereby the gods survive—The white ideal fireThat keeps my soul alive.Now at the wondrous hour,She leaves her star supreme,And comes in the night’s still power,To touch me with a dream.Sibyl of mysteryOn roads beyond our ken,Softly she comes to me,And goes to God again.
The low-voiced girls that goIn gardens of the Lord,Like flowers of the field they growIn sisterly accord.Their whispering feet are whiteAlong the leafy ways;They go in whirls of lightToo beautiful for praise.And in their band forsoothIs one to set me free—The one that touched my youth—The one God gave to me.She kindles the desireWhereby the gods survive—The white ideal fireThat keeps my soul alive.Now at the wondrous hour,She leaves her star supreme,And comes in the night’s still power,To touch me with a dream.Sibyl of mysteryOn roads beyond our ken,Softly she comes to me,And goes to God again.
The low-voiced girls that goIn gardens of the Lord,Like flowers of the field they growIn sisterly accord.
Their whispering feet are whiteAlong the leafy ways;They go in whirls of lightToo beautiful for praise.
And in their band forsoothIs one to set me free—The one that touched my youth—The one God gave to me.
She kindles the desireWhereby the gods survive—The white ideal fireThat keeps my soul alive.
Now at the wondrous hour,She leaves her star supreme,And comes in the night’s still power,To touch me with a dream.
Sibyl of mysteryOn roads beyond our ken,Softly she comes to me,And goes to God again.
I know a valley in the summer hills,Haunted by little winds and daffodils;Faint footfalls and soft shadows pass at noon;Noiseless, at night, the clouds assemble there;And ghostly summits hang below the moon—Dim visions lightly swung in silent air.
I know a valley in the summer hills,Haunted by little winds and daffodils;Faint footfalls and soft shadows pass at noon;Noiseless, at night, the clouds assemble there;And ghostly summits hang below the moon—Dim visions lightly swung in silent air.
I know a valley in the summer hills,Haunted by little winds and daffodils;Faint footfalls and soft shadows pass at noon;Noiseless, at night, the clouds assemble there;And ghostly summits hang below the moon—Dim visions lightly swung in silent air.
There’s a feel of all things flowing,And no power of Earth can bind them;There’s a sense of all things growing,And through all their forms a-glowingOf the shaping souls behind them.And the break of beauty heightensWith the swiftening of the motion,And the soul behind it lightens,As a gleam of splendor whitensFrom a running wave of ocean.See the still hand of the Shaper,Moving in the dusk of being:Burns at first a misty taper,Like the moon in veil of vapor,When the rack of night is fleeing.In the stone a dream is sleeping,Just a tinge of life, a tremor;In the tree a soul is creeping—Last, a rush of angels sweepingWith the skies beyond the dreamer.So the Lord of Life is flingingOut a splendor that conceals Him:And the God is softly singingAnd on secret ways is winging,Till the rush of song reveals Him.
There’s a feel of all things flowing,And no power of Earth can bind them;There’s a sense of all things growing,And through all their forms a-glowingOf the shaping souls behind them.And the break of beauty heightensWith the swiftening of the motion,And the soul behind it lightens,As a gleam of splendor whitensFrom a running wave of ocean.See the still hand of the Shaper,Moving in the dusk of being:Burns at first a misty taper,Like the moon in veil of vapor,When the rack of night is fleeing.In the stone a dream is sleeping,Just a tinge of life, a tremor;In the tree a soul is creeping—Last, a rush of angels sweepingWith the skies beyond the dreamer.So the Lord of Life is flingingOut a splendor that conceals Him:And the God is softly singingAnd on secret ways is winging,Till the rush of song reveals Him.
There’s a feel of all things flowing,And no power of Earth can bind them;There’s a sense of all things growing,And through all their forms a-glowingOf the shaping souls behind them.
And the break of beauty heightensWith the swiftening of the motion,And the soul behind it lightens,As a gleam of splendor whitensFrom a running wave of ocean.
See the still hand of the Shaper,Moving in the dusk of being:Burns at first a misty taper,Like the moon in veil of vapor,When the rack of night is fleeing.
In the stone a dream is sleeping,Just a tinge of life, a tremor;In the tree a soul is creeping—Last, a rush of angels sweepingWith the skies beyond the dreamer.
So the Lord of Life is flingingOut a splendor that conceals Him:And the God is softly singingAnd on secret ways is winging,Till the rush of song reveals Him.
Oh, the fret of the brain,And the wounds and the worry;Oh, the thought of love and the thought of death—And the soul in its silent hurry.But the stars break above,And the fields flower under;And the tragical life of man goes on,Surrounded by beauty and wonder.
Oh, the fret of the brain,And the wounds and the worry;Oh, the thought of love and the thought of death—And the soul in its silent hurry.But the stars break above,And the fields flower under;And the tragical life of man goes on,Surrounded by beauty and wonder.
Oh, the fret of the brain,And the wounds and the worry;Oh, the thought of love and the thought of death—And the soul in its silent hurry.
But the stars break above,And the fields flower under;And the tragical life of man goes on,Surrounded by beauty and wonder.
Can it be the Master knowsHow the Cosmic Blossom blows?Yes, at times the Lord of LightBreaks forth wonderful and white,And He strikes a corded lyreIn a rush of whirlwind fire;And He sees before Him passSouls and planets in a glass;And within the music hearsAll the motions of all spheres,All the whispers of all feet,Cries of triumph and retreat,Songs of systems and of souls,Circling to their mighty goals.So the Lord of Light beholdsHow the Cosmic Flower unfolds.
Can it be the Master knowsHow the Cosmic Blossom blows?Yes, at times the Lord of LightBreaks forth wonderful and white,And He strikes a corded lyreIn a rush of whirlwind fire;And He sees before Him passSouls and planets in a glass;And within the music hearsAll the motions of all spheres,All the whispers of all feet,Cries of triumph and retreat,Songs of systems and of souls,Circling to their mighty goals.So the Lord of Light beholdsHow the Cosmic Flower unfolds.
Can it be the Master knowsHow the Cosmic Blossom blows?
Yes, at times the Lord of LightBreaks forth wonderful and white,And He strikes a corded lyreIn a rush of whirlwind fire;And He sees before Him passSouls and planets in a glass;And within the music hearsAll the motions of all spheres,All the whispers of all feet,Cries of triumph and retreat,Songs of systems and of souls,Circling to their mighty goals.
So the Lord of Light beholdsHow the Cosmic Flower unfolds.
Yonder a workman, under the cool bridge,Resting at mid-day, watches the glancing midge,While twinkling lights and murmurs of the streamPass into the dim fabric of his dream.The misty hollows and the drowsy ridge—How like an airy fantasy they seem.
Yonder a workman, under the cool bridge,Resting at mid-day, watches the glancing midge,While twinkling lights and murmurs of the streamPass into the dim fabric of his dream.The misty hollows and the drowsy ridge—How like an airy fantasy they seem.
Yonder a workman, under the cool bridge,Resting at mid-day, watches the glancing midge,While twinkling lights and murmurs of the streamPass into the dim fabric of his dream.The misty hollows and the drowsy ridge—How like an airy fantasy they seem.
What do we know—what need we knowOf the great world to which we go?We peer into the tomb, and hark:Its walls are dim, its doors are dark.Be still, O mourning heart, nor seekTo make the tongueless silence speak:Be still, be strong, nor wish to findTheir way who leave the world behind—Voices and forms forever goneInto the darkness of the dawn.What is their wisdom, clear and deep?—That as men sow they surely reap,—That every thought, that every deed,Is sown into the soul for seed.They have no word we do not know,—Nor yet the cherubim aglowWith God: we know that virtue saves,—They know no more beyond the graves.
What do we know—what need we knowOf the great world to which we go?We peer into the tomb, and hark:Its walls are dim, its doors are dark.Be still, O mourning heart, nor seekTo make the tongueless silence speak:Be still, be strong, nor wish to findTheir way who leave the world behind—Voices and forms forever goneInto the darkness of the dawn.What is their wisdom, clear and deep?—That as men sow they surely reap,—That every thought, that every deed,Is sown into the soul for seed.They have no word we do not know,—Nor yet the cherubim aglowWith God: we know that virtue saves,—They know no more beyond the graves.
What do we know—what need we knowOf the great world to which we go?We peer into the tomb, and hark:Its walls are dim, its doors are dark.
Be still, O mourning heart, nor seekTo make the tongueless silence speak:Be still, be strong, nor wish to findTheir way who leave the world behind—Voices and forms forever goneInto the darkness of the dawn.
What is their wisdom, clear and deep?—That as men sow they surely reap,—That every thought, that every deed,Is sown into the soul for seed.They have no word we do not know,—Nor yet the cherubim aglowWith God: we know that virtue saves,—They know no more beyond the graves.
The rains of winter scourged the weald,For days they darkened on the field:Now, where the wings of winter beat,The poppies ripple in the wheat.And pitiless griefs came thick and fast—Life’s bough was naked in the blast—Till silently amid the gloomThey blew the wintry heart to bloom.
The rains of winter scourged the weald,For days they darkened on the field:Now, where the wings of winter beat,The poppies ripple in the wheat.And pitiless griefs came thick and fast—Life’s bough was naked in the blast—Till silently amid the gloomThey blew the wintry heart to bloom.
The rains of winter scourged the weald,For days they darkened on the field:Now, where the wings of winter beat,The poppies ripple in the wheat.
And pitiless griefs came thick and fast—Life’s bough was naked in the blast—Till silently amid the gloomThey blew the wintry heart to bloom.
A host of poppies, a flight of swallows;A flurry of rain, and a wind that followsShepherds the leaves in the sheltered hollows,For the forest is shaken and thinned.Over my head are the firs for rafter;The crows blow south, and my heart goes after;I kiss my hands to the world with laughter—Is it Aidenn or mystical Ind?Oh, the whirl of the fields in the windy weather!How the barley breaks and blows together!Oh, glad is the free bird afloat on the heather—Oh, the whole world is glad of the wind!
A host of poppies, a flight of swallows;A flurry of rain, and a wind that followsShepherds the leaves in the sheltered hollows,For the forest is shaken and thinned.Over my head are the firs for rafter;The crows blow south, and my heart goes after;I kiss my hands to the world with laughter—Is it Aidenn or mystical Ind?Oh, the whirl of the fields in the windy weather!How the barley breaks and blows together!Oh, glad is the free bird afloat on the heather—Oh, the whole world is glad of the wind!
A host of poppies, a flight of swallows;A flurry of rain, and a wind that followsShepherds the leaves in the sheltered hollows,For the forest is shaken and thinned.
Over my head are the firs for rafter;The crows blow south, and my heart goes after;I kiss my hands to the world with laughter—Is it Aidenn or mystical Ind?
Oh, the whirl of the fields in the windy weather!How the barley breaks and blows together!Oh, glad is the free bird afloat on the heather—Oh, the whole world is glad of the wind!
Two swallows—each preening a long glossy feather;Now they gossip and dart through the silvery weather;Oh, praise to the Highest—two lovers together—Free, free in the fathomless world of air.No fate to oppose and no fortune to sunder;Blue sky overhead—green sky breaking under;And their home on the cliff in the midst of the wonder,Hung high beyond fear on the gray granite stair.
Two swallows—each preening a long glossy feather;Now they gossip and dart through the silvery weather;Oh, praise to the Highest—two lovers together—Free, free in the fathomless world of air.No fate to oppose and no fortune to sunder;Blue sky overhead—green sky breaking under;And their home on the cliff in the midst of the wonder,Hung high beyond fear on the gray granite stair.
Two swallows—each preening a long glossy feather;Now they gossip and dart through the silvery weather;Oh, praise to the Highest—two lovers together—Free, free in the fathomless world of air.
No fate to oppose and no fortune to sunder;Blue sky overhead—green sky breaking under;And their home on the cliff in the midst of the wonder,Hung high beyond fear on the gray granite stair.
It is the last appeal to man—Voice crying since the world began;The cry of the Ideal—cryTo aspirations that would die.The last appeal! in it is heardThe pathos of the final word.Voice tender and heroical—Imperious voice that knoweth wellTo wreck the reasonings of years,To strengthen rebel hearts with tears.
It is the last appeal to man—Voice crying since the world began;The cry of the Ideal—cryTo aspirations that would die.The last appeal! in it is heardThe pathos of the final word.Voice tender and heroical—Imperious voice that knoweth wellTo wreck the reasonings of years,To strengthen rebel hearts with tears.
It is the last appeal to man—Voice crying since the world began;The cry of the Ideal—cryTo aspirations that would die.The last appeal! in it is heardThe pathos of the final word.
Voice tender and heroical—Imperious voice that knoweth wellTo wreck the reasonings of years,To strengthen rebel hearts with tears.
My life is a dream—a dreamIn the moon’s cool beam;Some day I shall wake and desireA touch of the infinite fire.But now ’tis enough that I beIn the light of the sea;Enough that I climb with the cloudWhen the winds of the morning are loud;Enough that I fade with the starsWhen the door of the East unbars.
My life is a dream—a dreamIn the moon’s cool beam;Some day I shall wake and desireA touch of the infinite fire.But now ’tis enough that I beIn the light of the sea;Enough that I climb with the cloudWhen the winds of the morning are loud;Enough that I fade with the starsWhen the door of the East unbars.
My life is a dream—a dreamIn the moon’s cool beam;Some day I shall wake and desireA touch of the infinite fire.But now ’tis enough that I beIn the light of the sea;Enough that I climb with the cloudWhen the winds of the morning are loud;Enough that I fade with the starsWhen the door of the East unbars.
How will it be if there we find no traces—There in the Golden Heaven—if we findNo memories of the old Earth left behind,No visions of familiar forms and faces—Reminders of old voices and old places?Yet could we bear it if it should remind?
How will it be if there we find no traces—There in the Golden Heaven—if we findNo memories of the old Earth left behind,No visions of familiar forms and faces—Reminders of old voices and old places?Yet could we bear it if it should remind?
How will it be if there we find no traces—There in the Golden Heaven—if we findNo memories of the old Earth left behind,No visions of familiar forms and faces—Reminders of old voices and old places?Yet could we bear it if it should remind?
At times a youth (so whispered legend tells),Like Hylas, stoops to drinkBy forest-hidden brink,And fair hands draw him down to darkened wells;Fair hands that hold him fastWith laughter at the lastHave power to draw him lightly down to beIn elfin chambers under the gray sea.And I, O men of Earth, I too,When dawn was at the dew,Was drawn as Hylas downward and beheldSpirits of youth and eld—Was swung down endless caverns to the deep,Saw fervid jewels sparkle in their sleep,Saw glad gnomes working in the dusty light,Saw great rocks crouching in the primal night.I was drawn down, and after many daysReturned with stiller feet to walk the upper ways.
At times a youth (so whispered legend tells),Like Hylas, stoops to drinkBy forest-hidden brink,And fair hands draw him down to darkened wells;Fair hands that hold him fastWith laughter at the lastHave power to draw him lightly down to beIn elfin chambers under the gray sea.And I, O men of Earth, I too,When dawn was at the dew,Was drawn as Hylas downward and beheldSpirits of youth and eld—Was swung down endless caverns to the deep,Saw fervid jewels sparkle in their sleep,Saw glad gnomes working in the dusty light,Saw great rocks crouching in the primal night.I was drawn down, and after many daysReturned with stiller feet to walk the upper ways.
At times a youth (so whispered legend tells),Like Hylas, stoops to drinkBy forest-hidden brink,And fair hands draw him down to darkened wells;Fair hands that hold him fastWith laughter at the lastHave power to draw him lightly down to beIn elfin chambers under the gray sea.
And I, O men of Earth, I too,When dawn was at the dew,Was drawn as Hylas downward and beheldSpirits of youth and eld—Was swung down endless caverns to the deep,Saw fervid jewels sparkle in their sleep,Saw glad gnomes working in the dusty light,Saw great rocks crouching in the primal night.I was drawn down, and after many daysReturned with stiller feet to walk the upper ways.
I have no glory in these songs of mine:If one of them can make a brother strong,It came down from the peaks of the divine—I heard it in the Heaven of Lyric Song.The one who builds the poem into fact,He is the rightful owner of it all:The pale words are with God’s own power packedWhen brave souls answer to their buglecall.And so I ask no man to praise my song,But I would have him build it in his soul;For that great praise would make me glad and strong,And build the poem to a perfect whole.
I have no glory in these songs of mine:If one of them can make a brother strong,It came down from the peaks of the divine—I heard it in the Heaven of Lyric Song.The one who builds the poem into fact,He is the rightful owner of it all:The pale words are with God’s own power packedWhen brave souls answer to their buglecall.And so I ask no man to praise my song,But I would have him build it in his soul;For that great praise would make me glad and strong,And build the poem to a perfect whole.
I have no glory in these songs of mine:If one of them can make a brother strong,It came down from the peaks of the divine—I heard it in the Heaven of Lyric Song.
The one who builds the poem into fact,He is the rightful owner of it all:The pale words are with God’s own power packedWhen brave souls answer to their buglecall.
And so I ask no man to praise my song,But I would have him build it in his soul;For that great praise would make me glad and strong,And build the poem to a perfect whole.
There comes a pitiless cry from the oppressed—A cry from the toilers of Babylon for their rest.—O Poet, thou art holden with a vow:The light of higher worlds is on thy brow,And Freedom’s star is soaring in thy breast.Go, be a dauntless voice, a bugle-cryIn darkening battle when the winds are high—A clear sane cry wherein the God is heardTo speak to men the one redeeming word.No peace for thee, no peace,Till blind oppression cease;The stones cry from the walls,Till the gray injustice falls—Till strong men come to build in freedom-fateThe pillars of the new Fraternal State.Let trifling pipe be mute,Fling by the languid lute:Take down the trumpet and confront the Hour,And speak to toil-worn nations from a tower—Take down the horn wherein the thunders sleep,Blow battles into men—call down the fire—The daring, the long purpose, the desire;Descend with faith into the Human Deep,And ringing to the troops of right a cheer,Make known the Truth of Man in holy fear;Send forth thy spirit in a storm of song,A tempest flinging fire upon the wrong.
There comes a pitiless cry from the oppressed—A cry from the toilers of Babylon for their rest.—O Poet, thou art holden with a vow:The light of higher worlds is on thy brow,And Freedom’s star is soaring in thy breast.Go, be a dauntless voice, a bugle-cryIn darkening battle when the winds are high—A clear sane cry wherein the God is heardTo speak to men the one redeeming word.No peace for thee, no peace,Till blind oppression cease;The stones cry from the walls,Till the gray injustice falls—Till strong men come to build in freedom-fateThe pillars of the new Fraternal State.Let trifling pipe be mute,Fling by the languid lute:Take down the trumpet and confront the Hour,And speak to toil-worn nations from a tower—Take down the horn wherein the thunders sleep,Blow battles into men—call down the fire—The daring, the long purpose, the desire;Descend with faith into the Human Deep,And ringing to the troops of right a cheer,Make known the Truth of Man in holy fear;Send forth thy spirit in a storm of song,A tempest flinging fire upon the wrong.
There comes a pitiless cry from the oppressed—A cry from the toilers of Babylon for their rest.—O Poet, thou art holden with a vow:The light of higher worlds is on thy brow,And Freedom’s star is soaring in thy breast.Go, be a dauntless voice, a bugle-cryIn darkening battle when the winds are high—A clear sane cry wherein the God is heardTo speak to men the one redeeming word.No peace for thee, no peace,Till blind oppression cease;The stones cry from the walls,Till the gray injustice falls—Till strong men come to build in freedom-fateThe pillars of the new Fraternal State.
Let trifling pipe be mute,Fling by the languid lute:Take down the trumpet and confront the Hour,And speak to toil-worn nations from a tower—Take down the horn wherein the thunders sleep,Blow battles into men—call down the fire—The daring, the long purpose, the desire;Descend with faith into the Human Deep,And ringing to the troops of right a cheer,Make known the Truth of Man in holy fear;Send forth thy spirit in a storm of song,A tempest flinging fire upon the wrong.
Their blind feet drift in the darkness, and no one is leading;Their toil is the pasture, where hyens and harpies are feeding;In all lands and always, the wronged, the homeless, the humbledTill the cliff-like pride of the spoiler is shaken and crumbled,Till the Pillars of Hell are uprooted and left to their ruin,And a rose-garden gladdens the places no rose ever blew in,Where now men huddle together and whisper and harken,Or hold their bleak hands over embers that die out and darken.The anarchies gather and thunder: few, few are the fraters,And loud is the revel at night in the camp of the traitors.Say, Shelley, where are you—where are you? our hearts are a-breaking!The fight in the terrible darkness—the shame—the forsaking!The leaves shower down and are sport for the winds that come after;And so are the Toilers in all lands the jest and the laughterOf nobles—the Toilers scourged on in the furrow as cattle,Or flung as a meat to the cannons that hunger in battle.
Their blind feet drift in the darkness, and no one is leading;Their toil is the pasture, where hyens and harpies are feeding;In all lands and always, the wronged, the homeless, the humbledTill the cliff-like pride of the spoiler is shaken and crumbled,Till the Pillars of Hell are uprooted and left to their ruin,And a rose-garden gladdens the places no rose ever blew in,Where now men huddle together and whisper and harken,Or hold their bleak hands over embers that die out and darken.The anarchies gather and thunder: few, few are the fraters,And loud is the revel at night in the camp of the traitors.Say, Shelley, where are you—where are you? our hearts are a-breaking!The fight in the terrible darkness—the shame—the forsaking!The leaves shower down and are sport for the winds that come after;And so are the Toilers in all lands the jest and the laughterOf nobles—the Toilers scourged on in the furrow as cattle,Or flung as a meat to the cannons that hunger in battle.
Their blind feet drift in the darkness, and no one is leading;Their toil is the pasture, where hyens and harpies are feeding;In all lands and always, the wronged, the homeless, the humbledTill the cliff-like pride of the spoiler is shaken and crumbled,Till the Pillars of Hell are uprooted and left to their ruin,And a rose-garden gladdens the places no rose ever blew in,Where now men huddle together and whisper and harken,Or hold their bleak hands over embers that die out and darken.The anarchies gather and thunder: few, few are the fraters,And loud is the revel at night in the camp of the traitors.Say, Shelley, where are you—where are you? our hearts are a-breaking!The fight in the terrible darkness—the shame—the forsaking!
The leaves shower down and are sport for the winds that come after;And so are the Toilers in all lands the jest and the laughterOf nobles—the Toilers scourged on in the furrow as cattle,Or flung as a meat to the cannons that hunger in battle.
The world’s sad petrels dwell for evermoreOn windy headland or on ocean floor,Or pierce the violent skies with perilous flightsThat fret men in their palaces o’ nights,Breaking enchanted slumber’s easeful boat,With shudderings of their wild and dolorous note;They blow about the black and barren skies,They fill the night with ineffectual cries.There is for them not anything before,But sound of sea and sight of soundless shore,Save when the darkness glimmers with a ray,And Hope sings softly,Soon it will be day.Then for a golden space the shades are thinned,And dawn seems blowing seaward on the wind.But soon the dark comes wilder than before,And swift around them breaks a sullen roar;The tempest calls to windward and to lea,And—they are seabirds on the homeless sea.
The world’s sad petrels dwell for evermoreOn windy headland or on ocean floor,Or pierce the violent skies with perilous flightsThat fret men in their palaces o’ nights,Breaking enchanted slumber’s easeful boat,With shudderings of their wild and dolorous note;They blow about the black and barren skies,They fill the night with ineffectual cries.There is for them not anything before,But sound of sea and sight of soundless shore,Save when the darkness glimmers with a ray,And Hope sings softly,Soon it will be day.Then for a golden space the shades are thinned,And dawn seems blowing seaward on the wind.But soon the dark comes wilder than before,And swift around them breaks a sullen roar;The tempest calls to windward and to lea,And—they are seabirds on the homeless sea.
The world’s sad petrels dwell for evermoreOn windy headland or on ocean floor,Or pierce the violent skies with perilous flightsThat fret men in their palaces o’ nights,Breaking enchanted slumber’s easeful boat,With shudderings of their wild and dolorous note;They blow about the black and barren skies,They fill the night with ineffectual cries.
There is for them not anything before,But sound of sea and sight of soundless shore,Save when the darkness glimmers with a ray,And Hope sings softly,Soon it will be day.Then for a golden space the shades are thinned,And dawn seems blowing seaward on the wind.But soon the dark comes wilder than before,And swift around them breaks a sullen roar;The tempest calls to windward and to lea,And—they are seabirds on the homeless sea.
The gray bulk of the granaries uploom against the sky;The harvest moon has dwindled—they have housed the corn and rye;And now the idle reapers lounge against the bolted doors:Without are hungry harvesters, within enchanted stores.Lo, they had bread while they were out a-toiling in the sun:Now they are strolling beggars, for the harvest work is done.They are the gods of husbandry: they gather in the sheaves,But when the autumn strips the wood, they’re drifting with the leaves.They plow and sow and gather in the glory of the corn;They know the noon, they know the pitiless rains before the morn;They know the sweep of furrowed fields that darken in the gloom—A little while their hope on earth, then evermore the tomb.
The gray bulk of the granaries uploom against the sky;The harvest moon has dwindled—they have housed the corn and rye;And now the idle reapers lounge against the bolted doors:Without are hungry harvesters, within enchanted stores.Lo, they had bread while they were out a-toiling in the sun:Now they are strolling beggars, for the harvest work is done.They are the gods of husbandry: they gather in the sheaves,But when the autumn strips the wood, they’re drifting with the leaves.They plow and sow and gather in the glory of the corn;They know the noon, they know the pitiless rains before the morn;They know the sweep of furrowed fields that darken in the gloom—A little while their hope on earth, then evermore the tomb.
The gray bulk of the granaries uploom against the sky;The harvest moon has dwindled—they have housed the corn and rye;And now the idle reapers lounge against the bolted doors:Without are hungry harvesters, within enchanted stores.
Lo, they had bread while they were out a-toiling in the sun:Now they are strolling beggars, for the harvest work is done.They are the gods of husbandry: they gather in the sheaves,But when the autumn strips the wood, they’re drifting with the leaves.They plow and sow and gather in the glory of the corn;They know the noon, they know the pitiless rains before the morn;They know the sweep of furrowed fields that darken in the gloom—A little while their hope on earth, then evermore the tomb.
I remember how I layOn a bank a summer day,Peering into weed and flower:Watched a poppy all one hour;Watched it till the air grew chillIn the darkness of the hill;Till I saw a wild bee dartOut of the cold to the poppy’s heart;Saw the petals gently spin,And shut the little lodger in.Then I took the quiet roadTo my own secure abode.All night long his tavern hung;Now it rested, now it swung;I asleep in steadfast tower,He asleep in stirring flower;In our hearts the same delightIn the hushes of the night;Over us both the same dear careAs we slumbered unaware.
I remember how I layOn a bank a summer day,Peering into weed and flower:Watched a poppy all one hour;Watched it till the air grew chillIn the darkness of the hill;Till I saw a wild bee dartOut of the cold to the poppy’s heart;Saw the petals gently spin,And shut the little lodger in.Then I took the quiet roadTo my own secure abode.All night long his tavern hung;Now it rested, now it swung;I asleep in steadfast tower,He asleep in stirring flower;In our hearts the same delightIn the hushes of the night;Over us both the same dear careAs we slumbered unaware.
I remember how I layOn a bank a summer day,Peering into weed and flower:Watched a poppy all one hour;Watched it till the air grew chillIn the darkness of the hill;Till I saw a wild bee dartOut of the cold to the poppy’s heart;Saw the petals gently spin,And shut the little lodger in.Then I took the quiet roadTo my own secure abode.All night long his tavern hung;Now it rested, now it swung;I asleep in steadfast tower,He asleep in stirring flower;In our hearts the same delightIn the hushes of the night;Over us both the same dear careAs we slumbered unaware.
When I see a workingman with mouths to feed,Up, day after day, in the dark before the dawn,And coming home, night after night, through the dusk,Swinging forward like some fierce silent animal,I see a man doomed to roll a huge stone up an endless steep.He strains it onward inch by stubborn inch,Crouched always in the shadow of the rock....See where he crouches, twisted, cramped, misshapen!He lifts for their life;The veins knot and darken—Blood surges into his face....Now he loses—now he wins—Now he loses—loses—(God of my soul!)He digs his feet into the earth—There’s a moment of terrified effort.Will the huge stone break his hold,And crush him as it plunges to the gulf?The silent struggle goes on and on,Like two contending in a dream.
When I see a workingman with mouths to feed,Up, day after day, in the dark before the dawn,And coming home, night after night, through the dusk,Swinging forward like some fierce silent animal,I see a man doomed to roll a huge stone up an endless steep.He strains it onward inch by stubborn inch,Crouched always in the shadow of the rock....See where he crouches, twisted, cramped, misshapen!He lifts for their life;The veins knot and darken—Blood surges into his face....Now he loses—now he wins—Now he loses—loses—(God of my soul!)He digs his feet into the earth—There’s a moment of terrified effort.Will the huge stone break his hold,And crush him as it plunges to the gulf?The silent struggle goes on and on,Like two contending in a dream.
When I see a workingman with mouths to feed,Up, day after day, in the dark before the dawn,And coming home, night after night, through the dusk,Swinging forward like some fierce silent animal,I see a man doomed to roll a huge stone up an endless steep.He strains it onward inch by stubborn inch,Crouched always in the shadow of the rock....See where he crouches, twisted, cramped, misshapen!He lifts for their life;The veins knot and darken—Blood surges into his face....Now he loses—now he wins—Now he loses—loses—(God of my soul!)He digs his feet into the earth—There’s a moment of terrified effort.Will the huge stone break his hold,And crush him as it plunges to the gulf?
The silent struggle goes on and on,Like two contending in a dream.
Come, Mighty Mother, from the bright abode,Lift the low heavens and hush the Earth again;Come when the moon throws down a shining roadAcross the sea—come back to weary men.But if the moon throws out across the seaToo dim a light, too wavering a way,Come when the sunset paves a path for TheeAcross the waters fading into gray.Dead nations saw Thee dimly in release—In Aphrodite rising from the foam:Some glimmer of Thy beauty was on Greece,Some trembling of Thy passion was on Rome.For ages Thou hast been the dim desireThat warmed the bridal chamber of the mind:Come burning through the heavens with Holy Fire,And spread divine contagion on mankind.Come down, O Mother, to the helpless land,That we may frame our Freedom into Fate:Come down, and on the throne of nations stand,That we may build Thy beauty in the State.Come shining in upon our daily road,Uphold the hero heart and light the mind;Quicken the strong to lift the People’s load,And bring back buried justice to mankind.Shine through the frame of nations for a light,Move through the hearts of heroes in a song:It is Thy beauty, wilder than the night,That hushed the heavens and keeps the high gods strong.I know, Supernal Woman, Thou dost seekNo song of man, no worship and no praise;But thou wouldst have dead lips begin to speak,And dead feet rise to walk immortal ways.Yet listen, Mighty Mother, to the childWho has no voice but song to tell his grief—Nothing but tears and broken numbers wild,Nothing but woodland music for relief.His song is but a little broken cry,Less than the whisper of a river reed;Yet thou canst hear in it the souls that die—Feel in its pain the vastness of our need.I would not break the mouth of song to tellMy life’s long passion and my heart’s long grief,But Thou canst hear the ocean in one shell,And see the whole world’s winter in one leaf.So here I stand at the world’s weary feet,And cry the sorrow of the world’s dumb years:I cry because I hear the world’s heart beatWeary of hope, weary of life and tears.For ages Thou hast breathèd upon mankindA faint wild tenderness, a vague desire;For ages stilled the whirlwinds of the mind,And sent on lyric seers the rush of fire.And yet the world is held by wintry chain,Dead to Thy social passion, Holy One:The dried-up furrows need the vital rain,The cold seeds the quick spirit of the sun.Some day our homeless cries will draw Thee down,And the old brightness on the ways of menWill send a hush upon the jangling town,And broken hearts will learn to love again.Come, Bride of God, to fill the vacant Throne,Touch the dim Earth again with sacred feet;Come build the Holy City of white stone,And let the whole world’s gladness be complete.Come with the face that hushed the heavens of old—Come with Thy maidens in a mist of light;Haste for the night falls and the shadows fold,And voices cry and wander on the height.
Come, Mighty Mother, from the bright abode,Lift the low heavens and hush the Earth again;Come when the moon throws down a shining roadAcross the sea—come back to weary men.But if the moon throws out across the seaToo dim a light, too wavering a way,Come when the sunset paves a path for TheeAcross the waters fading into gray.Dead nations saw Thee dimly in release—In Aphrodite rising from the foam:Some glimmer of Thy beauty was on Greece,Some trembling of Thy passion was on Rome.For ages Thou hast been the dim desireThat warmed the bridal chamber of the mind:Come burning through the heavens with Holy Fire,And spread divine contagion on mankind.Come down, O Mother, to the helpless land,That we may frame our Freedom into Fate:Come down, and on the throne of nations stand,That we may build Thy beauty in the State.Come shining in upon our daily road,Uphold the hero heart and light the mind;Quicken the strong to lift the People’s load,And bring back buried justice to mankind.Shine through the frame of nations for a light,Move through the hearts of heroes in a song:It is Thy beauty, wilder than the night,That hushed the heavens and keeps the high gods strong.I know, Supernal Woman, Thou dost seekNo song of man, no worship and no praise;But thou wouldst have dead lips begin to speak,And dead feet rise to walk immortal ways.Yet listen, Mighty Mother, to the childWho has no voice but song to tell his grief—Nothing but tears and broken numbers wild,Nothing but woodland music for relief.His song is but a little broken cry,Less than the whisper of a river reed;Yet thou canst hear in it the souls that die—Feel in its pain the vastness of our need.I would not break the mouth of song to tellMy life’s long passion and my heart’s long grief,But Thou canst hear the ocean in one shell,And see the whole world’s winter in one leaf.So here I stand at the world’s weary feet,And cry the sorrow of the world’s dumb years:I cry because I hear the world’s heart beatWeary of hope, weary of life and tears.For ages Thou hast breathèd upon mankindA faint wild tenderness, a vague desire;For ages stilled the whirlwinds of the mind,And sent on lyric seers the rush of fire.And yet the world is held by wintry chain,Dead to Thy social passion, Holy One:The dried-up furrows need the vital rain,The cold seeds the quick spirit of the sun.Some day our homeless cries will draw Thee down,And the old brightness on the ways of menWill send a hush upon the jangling town,And broken hearts will learn to love again.Come, Bride of God, to fill the vacant Throne,Touch the dim Earth again with sacred feet;Come build the Holy City of white stone,And let the whole world’s gladness be complete.Come with the face that hushed the heavens of old—Come with Thy maidens in a mist of light;Haste for the night falls and the shadows fold,And voices cry and wander on the height.
Come, Mighty Mother, from the bright abode,Lift the low heavens and hush the Earth again;Come when the moon throws down a shining roadAcross the sea—come back to weary men.
But if the moon throws out across the seaToo dim a light, too wavering a way,Come when the sunset paves a path for TheeAcross the waters fading into gray.
Dead nations saw Thee dimly in release—In Aphrodite rising from the foam:Some glimmer of Thy beauty was on Greece,Some trembling of Thy passion was on Rome.
For ages Thou hast been the dim desireThat warmed the bridal chamber of the mind:Come burning through the heavens with Holy Fire,And spread divine contagion on mankind.
Come down, O Mother, to the helpless land,That we may frame our Freedom into Fate:Come down, and on the throne of nations stand,That we may build Thy beauty in the State.
Come shining in upon our daily road,Uphold the hero heart and light the mind;Quicken the strong to lift the People’s load,And bring back buried justice to mankind.
Shine through the frame of nations for a light,Move through the hearts of heroes in a song:It is Thy beauty, wilder than the night,That hushed the heavens and keeps the high gods strong.
I know, Supernal Woman, Thou dost seekNo song of man, no worship and no praise;But thou wouldst have dead lips begin to speak,And dead feet rise to walk immortal ways.
Yet listen, Mighty Mother, to the childWho has no voice but song to tell his grief—Nothing but tears and broken numbers wild,Nothing but woodland music for relief.
His song is but a little broken cry,Less than the whisper of a river reed;Yet thou canst hear in it the souls that die—Feel in its pain the vastness of our need.
I would not break the mouth of song to tellMy life’s long passion and my heart’s long grief,But Thou canst hear the ocean in one shell,And see the whole world’s winter in one leaf.
So here I stand at the world’s weary feet,And cry the sorrow of the world’s dumb years:I cry because I hear the world’s heart beatWeary of hope, weary of life and tears.
For ages Thou hast breathèd upon mankindA faint wild tenderness, a vague desire;For ages stilled the whirlwinds of the mind,And sent on lyric seers the rush of fire.
And yet the world is held by wintry chain,Dead to Thy social passion, Holy One:The dried-up furrows need the vital rain,The cold seeds the quick spirit of the sun.
Some day our homeless cries will draw Thee down,And the old brightness on the ways of menWill send a hush upon the jangling town,And broken hearts will learn to love again.
Come, Bride of God, to fill the vacant Throne,Touch the dim Earth again with sacred feet;Come build the Holy City of white stone,And let the whole world’s gladness be complete.
Come with the face that hushed the heavens of old—Come with Thy maidens in a mist of light;Haste for the night falls and the shadows fold,And voices cry and wander on the height.
I watch afar the moving Mystery,The wool-shod, formless terror of the sea—The Mystery whose lightest touch can changeThe world God made to phantasy, death-strange.Under its spell all things grow old and grayAs they will be beyond the Judgment Day.All voices, at the lifting of some hand,Seem calling to us from another land.Is it the still Power of the SepulcherThat makes all things the wraiths of things that were?It touches, one by one, the wayside posts,And they are gone, a line of hurrying ghosts.It creeps upon the towns with stealthy feet,And men are phantoms on a phantom street.It strikes the towers and they are shafts of air,Above the spectres passing in the square.The city turns to ashes, spire by spire;The mountains perish with their peaks afire.The fading city and the falling skyAre swallowed in one doom without a cry.It tracks the traveler fleeing with the gale,Fleeing toward home and friends without avail;It springs upon him and he is a ghost,A blurred shape moving on a soundless coast.God! it pursues my love along the stream,Swirls round her and she is forever dream.What Hate has touched the universe with eld,And left me only in a world dispelled?
I watch afar the moving Mystery,The wool-shod, formless terror of the sea—The Mystery whose lightest touch can changeThe world God made to phantasy, death-strange.Under its spell all things grow old and grayAs they will be beyond the Judgment Day.All voices, at the lifting of some hand,Seem calling to us from another land.Is it the still Power of the SepulcherThat makes all things the wraiths of things that were?It touches, one by one, the wayside posts,And they are gone, a line of hurrying ghosts.It creeps upon the towns with stealthy feet,And men are phantoms on a phantom street.It strikes the towers and they are shafts of air,Above the spectres passing in the square.The city turns to ashes, spire by spire;The mountains perish with their peaks afire.The fading city and the falling skyAre swallowed in one doom without a cry.It tracks the traveler fleeing with the gale,Fleeing toward home and friends without avail;It springs upon him and he is a ghost,A blurred shape moving on a soundless coast.God! it pursues my love along the stream,Swirls round her and she is forever dream.What Hate has touched the universe with eld,And left me only in a world dispelled?
I watch afar the moving Mystery,The wool-shod, formless terror of the sea—The Mystery whose lightest touch can changeThe world God made to phantasy, death-strange.Under its spell all things grow old and grayAs they will be beyond the Judgment Day.All voices, at the lifting of some hand,Seem calling to us from another land.Is it the still Power of the SepulcherThat makes all things the wraiths of things that were?
It touches, one by one, the wayside posts,And they are gone, a line of hurrying ghosts.It creeps upon the towns with stealthy feet,And men are phantoms on a phantom street.It strikes the towers and they are shafts of air,Above the spectres passing in the square.The city turns to ashes, spire by spire;The mountains perish with their peaks afire.The fading city and the falling skyAre swallowed in one doom without a cry.
It tracks the traveler fleeing with the gale,Fleeing toward home and friends without avail;It springs upon him and he is a ghost,A blurred shape moving on a soundless coast.God! it pursues my love along the stream,Swirls round her and she is forever dream.What Hate has touched the universe with eld,And left me only in a world dispelled?
One day a child ran after me in the street,To give me a half-blown rose, a fire-white rose,Its stem all warm yet from the tight-shut hand.The little gift seemed somehow more to meThan all men strive for in the turbid towns,Than all they hoard up through a long wild life.And as I breathed the heart-breath of the flower,The Youth of Earth broke on me like a dawn,And I was with the wide-eyed wondering things,Back in the far forgotten buried time.A lost world came back softly with the rose:I saw a glad host follow with lusty criesDiana flying with her maidens white,Down the long reaches of the laureled hills.Above the sea I saw a wreath of girls,Fading to air in far-off poppy fields.I saw a blithe youth take the open road:His thoughts ran on before him merrily;Sometimes he dipped his feet in stirring brooks;At night he slept upon a bed of boughs.This in my soul. Then suddenly a shape,A spectre wearing yet the mask of dustJostled against me as he passed, and lo!The jarring city and the drift of feetSurged back upon me like the grieving sea.
One day a child ran after me in the street,To give me a half-blown rose, a fire-white rose,Its stem all warm yet from the tight-shut hand.The little gift seemed somehow more to meThan all men strive for in the turbid towns,Than all they hoard up through a long wild life.And as I breathed the heart-breath of the flower,The Youth of Earth broke on me like a dawn,And I was with the wide-eyed wondering things,Back in the far forgotten buried time.A lost world came back softly with the rose:I saw a glad host follow with lusty criesDiana flying with her maidens white,Down the long reaches of the laureled hills.Above the sea I saw a wreath of girls,Fading to air in far-off poppy fields.I saw a blithe youth take the open road:His thoughts ran on before him merrily;Sometimes he dipped his feet in stirring brooks;At night he slept upon a bed of boughs.This in my soul. Then suddenly a shape,A spectre wearing yet the mask of dustJostled against me as he passed, and lo!The jarring city and the drift of feetSurged back upon me like the grieving sea.
One day a child ran after me in the street,To give me a half-blown rose, a fire-white rose,Its stem all warm yet from the tight-shut hand.The little gift seemed somehow more to meThan all men strive for in the turbid towns,Than all they hoard up through a long wild life.And as I breathed the heart-breath of the flower,The Youth of Earth broke on me like a dawn,And I was with the wide-eyed wondering things,Back in the far forgotten buried time.A lost world came back softly with the rose:I saw a glad host follow with lusty criesDiana flying with her maidens white,Down the long reaches of the laureled hills.Above the sea I saw a wreath of girls,Fading to air in far-off poppy fields.I saw a blithe youth take the open road:His thoughts ran on before him merrily;Sometimes he dipped his feet in stirring brooks;At night he slept upon a bed of boughs.
This in my soul. Then suddenly a shape,A spectre wearing yet the mask of dustJostled against me as he passed, and lo!The jarring city and the drift of feetSurged back upon me like the grieving sea.
At the meeting of seven valleys in the west,I came upon a host of silent souls,Seated beside still waters on the grass.It was a place of memories and tears—Terrible tears. I rested in a wood,And there the bird that mourns for Itys sang—Itys that touched the tears of all the world.But climbing onward toward the purple peaks,I passed, on silent feet, white multitudes,Beyond the reach of peering memories,Lying asleep upon the scented banks,Their bodies burning with celestial fire.A mighty awe came on me at the thought—The strangeness of the beatific sleep,The vision of God, the mystic bread of rest.
At the meeting of seven valleys in the west,I came upon a host of silent souls,Seated beside still waters on the grass.It was a place of memories and tears—Terrible tears. I rested in a wood,And there the bird that mourns for Itys sang—Itys that touched the tears of all the world.But climbing onward toward the purple peaks,I passed, on silent feet, white multitudes,Beyond the reach of peering memories,Lying asleep upon the scented banks,Their bodies burning with celestial fire.A mighty awe came on me at the thought—The strangeness of the beatific sleep,The vision of God, the mystic bread of rest.
At the meeting of seven valleys in the west,I came upon a host of silent souls,Seated beside still waters on the grass.It was a place of memories and tears—Terrible tears. I rested in a wood,And there the bird that mourns for Itys sang—Itys that touched the tears of all the world.But climbing onward toward the purple peaks,I passed, on silent feet, white multitudes,Beyond the reach of peering memories,Lying asleep upon the scented banks,Their bodies burning with celestial fire.A mighty awe came on me at the thought—The strangeness of the beatific sleep,The vision of God, the mystic bread of rest.
Pausing he leans upon his sledge, and looks—A labor-blasted toiler;So have I seen, on Shasta’s top, a pineStand silent on a cliff,Stript of its glory of green leaves and boughs,Its great trunk split by fire,Its gray bark blackened by the thunder-smoke,Its life a sacrificeTo some blind purpose of the destinies.
Pausing he leans upon his sledge, and looks—A labor-blasted toiler;So have I seen, on Shasta’s top, a pineStand silent on a cliff,Stript of its glory of green leaves and boughs,Its great trunk split by fire,Its gray bark blackened by the thunder-smoke,Its life a sacrificeTo some blind purpose of the destinies.
Pausing he leans upon his sledge, and looks—A labor-blasted toiler;So have I seen, on Shasta’s top, a pineStand silent on a cliff,Stript of its glory of green leaves and boughs,Its great trunk split by fire,Its gray bark blackened by the thunder-smoke,Its life a sacrificeTo some blind purpose of the destinies.
These songs will perish like the shapes of air—The singer and the songs die out forever;But star-eyed Truth (greater than song or singer)Sweeps hurrying on: far off she sees a gleamUpon a peak. She cried to man of oldTo build the enduring, glad Fraternal State—Cries yet through all the ruins of the world—Through Karnack, through the stones of Babylon—Cries for a moment through these fading songs.On wingèd feet, a form of fadeless youth,She goes to meet the coming centuries,And, hurrying, snatches up some human reed,Blows through it once her terror-bearing note,And breaks and throws away. It is enoughIf we can be a bugle at her lips,To scatter her contagion on mankind.
These songs will perish like the shapes of air—The singer and the songs die out forever;But star-eyed Truth (greater than song or singer)Sweeps hurrying on: far off she sees a gleamUpon a peak. She cried to man of oldTo build the enduring, glad Fraternal State—Cries yet through all the ruins of the world—Through Karnack, through the stones of Babylon—Cries for a moment through these fading songs.On wingèd feet, a form of fadeless youth,She goes to meet the coming centuries,And, hurrying, snatches up some human reed,Blows through it once her terror-bearing note,And breaks and throws away. It is enoughIf we can be a bugle at her lips,To scatter her contagion on mankind.
These songs will perish like the shapes of air—The singer and the songs die out forever;But star-eyed Truth (greater than song or singer)Sweeps hurrying on: far off she sees a gleamUpon a peak. She cried to man of oldTo build the enduring, glad Fraternal State—Cries yet through all the ruins of the world—Through Karnack, through the stones of Babylon—Cries for a moment through these fading songs.
On wingèd feet, a form of fadeless youth,She goes to meet the coming centuries,And, hurrying, snatches up some human reed,Blows through it once her terror-bearing note,And breaks and throws away. It is enoughIf we can be a bugle at her lips,To scatter her contagion on mankind.
FOOTNOTE:[A]This song should be read in the light of the deep and comforting truth that the Divine Feminine as well as the Divine Masculine Principle is in God—that he is Father-Mother, Two-in-One. It follows from this truth that the dignity of womanhood is grounded in the Divine Nature itself. The fact that the Deity is Man-Woman was known to the ancient poets and sages, and was grafted into the nobler religions of mankind. The idea is implied in the doctrine of the Divine Father, taught by our Lord in the Gospels; and it is declared in the first chapter of Genesis in the words: “God said, ‘Let Us make men in Our image, after Our likeness.’ ... So God created man in His own image, in the image of God created He him; male and female created He them.”
FOOTNOTE:
[A]This song should be read in the light of the deep and comforting truth that the Divine Feminine as well as the Divine Masculine Principle is in God—that he is Father-Mother, Two-in-One. It follows from this truth that the dignity of womanhood is grounded in the Divine Nature itself. The fact that the Deity is Man-Woman was known to the ancient poets and sages, and was grafted into the nobler religions of mankind. The idea is implied in the doctrine of the Divine Father, taught by our Lord in the Gospels; and it is declared in the first chapter of Genesis in the words: “God said, ‘Let Us make men in Our image, after Our likeness.’ ... So God created man in His own image, in the image of God created He him; male and female created He them.”
[A]This song should be read in the light of the deep and comforting truth that the Divine Feminine as well as the Divine Masculine Principle is in God—that he is Father-Mother, Two-in-One. It follows from this truth that the dignity of womanhood is grounded in the Divine Nature itself. The fact that the Deity is Man-Woman was known to the ancient poets and sages, and was grafted into the nobler religions of mankind. The idea is implied in the doctrine of the Divine Father, taught by our Lord in the Gospels; and it is declared in the first chapter of Genesis in the words: “God said, ‘Let Us make men in Our image, after Our likeness.’ ... So God created man in His own image, in the image of God created He him; male and female created He them.”