Later Poems Part 11

I am the breath of being, The primal urge of things; I am the whirl of star dust, I am the lift of wings.

"I am the splendid impulse That comes before the thought, The joy and exaltation Wherein the life is caught.

"Across the sleeping furrows I call the buried seed, And blade and bud and blossom Awaken at my need.

"Within the dying ashes I blow the sacred spark, And make the hearts of lovers To leap against the dark."

II

I heard the spring light whisper Above the dancing stream, "The world is made forever In likeness of a dream.

"I am the law of planets, I am the guide of man; The evening and the morning Are fas.h.i.+oned to my plan.

"I tint the dawn with crimson, I tinge the sea with blue; My track is in the desert, My trail is in the dew.

"I paint the hills with color, And in my magic dome I light the star of evening To steer the traveller home.

"Within the house of being, I feed the lamp of truth With tales of ancient wisdom And prophecies of youth."

III

I heard the spring rain murmur Above the roadside flower, "The world is made forever In melody and power.

"I keep the rhythmic measure That marks the steps of time, And all my toil is fas.h.i.+oned To symmetry and rhyme.

"I plow the untilled upland, I ripe the seeding gra.s.s, And fill the leafy forest With music as I pa.s.s.

"I hew the raw, rough granite To loveliness of line, And when my work is finished, Behold, it is divine!

"I am the master-builder In whom the ages trust.

I lift the lost perfection To blossom from the dust."

IV

Then Earth to them made answer, As with a slow refrain Born of the blended voices Of wind and sun and rain,

"This is the law of being That links the threefold chain: The life we give to beauty Returns to us again."

Resurgam

Lo, now comes the April pageant And the Easter of the year.

Now the tulip lifts her chalice, And the hyacinth his spear; All the daffodils and jonquils With their hearts of gold are here.

Child of the immortal vision, What hast thou to do with fear?

When the summons wakes the impulse, And the blood beats in the vein, Let no grief thy dream enc.u.mber, No regret thy thought detain.

Through the scented bloom-hung valleys, Over tillage, wood and plain, Comes the soothing south wind laden With the sweet impartial rain.

All along the roofs and pavements Pa.s.s the volleying silver showers, To unfold the hearts of humans And the frail unanxious flowers.

Breeding fast in sunlit places, Teeming life puts forth her powers, And the migrant wings come northward On the trail of golden hours.

Over intervale and upland Sounds the robin's interlude From his tree-top spire at evening Where no unbeliefs intrude.

Every follower of beauty Finds in the spring solitude Sanctuary and persuasion Where the mysteries still brood.

Now the bluebird in the orchard, A warm sighing at the door, And the soft haze on the hillside, Lure the houseling to explore The perennial enchanted Lovely world and all its lore; While the early tender twilight Breathes of those who come no more.

By full br.i.m.m.i.n.g river margins Where the scents of brush fires blow, Through the faint green mist of springtime, Dreaming glad-eyed lovers go, Touched with such immortal madness Not a thing they care to know More than those who caught life's secret Countless centuries ago.

In old Egypt for Osiris, Putting on the green attire, With soft hymns and choric dancing They went forth to greet the fire Of the vernal sun, whose ardor His earth children could inspire; And the ivory flutes would lead them To the slake of their desire.

In remembrance of Adonis Did the Dorian maidens sing Linus songs of joy and sorrow For the coming back of spring,-- Sorrow for the wintry death Of each irrevocable thing, Joy for all the pangs of beauty The returning year could bring.

Now the priests and holy women With sweet incense, chant and prayer, Keep His death and resurrection Whose new love bade all men share Immortality of kindness, Living to make life more fair.

Wakened to such wealth of being, Who would not arise and dare?

Seeing how each new fulfilment Issues at the call of need From infinitudes of purpose In the core of soul and seed, Who shall set the bounds of puissance Or the formulas of creed?

Truth awaits the test of beauty, Good is proven in the deed.

Therefore, give thy spring renascence,-- Freshened ardor, dreams and mirth,-- To make perfect and replenish All the sorry fault and dearth Of the life from whose enrichment Thine aspiring will had birth; Take thy part in the redemption Of thy kind from bonds of earth.

So shalt thou, absorbed in beauty, Even in this mortal clime Share the life that is eternal, Brother to the lords of time,-- Virgil, Raphael, Gautama,-- Builders of the world sublime.

Yesterday was not earth's evening Every morning is our prime.

All that can be worth the rescue From oblivion and decay,-- Joy and loveliness and wisdom,-- In thyself, without dismay Thou shalt save and make enduring Through each word and act, to sway The hereafter to a likeness Of thyself in other clay.

Still remains the peradventure, Soul pursues an orbit here Like those unreturning comets, Sweeping on a vast career, By an infinite directrix, Focussed to a finite sphere,-- Nurtured in an earthly April, In what realm to reappear?

Easter Eve

If I should tell you I saw Pan lately down by the shallows of Silvermine, Blowing an air on his pipe of willow, just as the moon began to s.h.i.+ne; Or say that, coming from town on Wednesday, I met Christ walking in Ponus Street; You might remark, "Our friend is flighty! Visions, for want of enough red meat!"

Then let me ask you. Last December, when there was skating on Wampanaw, Among the weeds and sticks and gra.s.ses under the hard black ice I saw An old mud-turtle poking about, as if he were putting his house to rights, Stiff with the cold perhaps, yet knowing enough to prepare for the winter nights.

And here he is on a log this morning, sunning himself as calm as you please.

But I want to know, when the lock of winter was sprung of a sudden, who kept the keys?

Who told old nibbler to go to sleep safe and sound with the lily roots, And then in the first warm days of April--out to the sun with the greening shoots?

By night a flock of geese went over, honking north on the trails of air, The spring express--but who despatched it, equipped with speed and cunning care?

Hark to our bluebird down in the orchard trolling his chant of the happy heart, As full of light as a theme of Mozart's--but where did he learn that more than art?

Where the river winds through gra.s.sy meadows, as sure as the south wind brings the rain, Sounding his reedy note in the alders, the redwing comes back to his nest again.