Collected Poems Volume II Part 15

Into that Mystery Let not thine hand be thrust: Nothingness is a world Thy science well may trust ...

But lo, a leaf unfurled, Nay, a cry mocking thee From the first grain of dust-- _I am, yet cannot be!_

VI

Adventuring un-afraid Into that last deep shrine, Must not the child-heart see Its deepest symbol s.h.i.+ne, The world's Birth-mystery, Whereto the suns are shade?

Lo, the white breast divine-- The holy Mother-maid!

VII

How miss that Sacrifice, That cross of Yea and Nay, That paradox of heaven Whose palms point either way, Through each a nail being driven That the arms out-span the skies And our earth-dust this day Out-sweeten Paradise.

VIII

We part the seamless robe, Our wisdom would divide The raiment of the King, Our spear is in His side, Even while the angels sing Around our peris.h.i.+ng globe, And Death re-knits in pride The seamless purple robe.

IX

_How grandly glow the bays Purpureally enwound With those rich thorns, the brows How infinitely crowned That now thro' Death's dark house Have pa.s.sed with royal gaze: Purpureally enwound How grandly glow the bays._

IN MEMORY OF MEREDITH

I

High on the mountains, who stands proudly, clad with the light of May, Rich as the dawn, deep-hearted as night, diamond-bright as day, Who, while the slopes of the beautiful valley throb with our m.u.f.fled tread Who, with the hill-flowers wound in her tresses, welcomes our deathless dead?

II

Is it not she whom he sought so long thro' the high lawns dewy and sweet, Up thro' the crags and the glittering snows faint-flushed with her rosy feet, Is it not she--the queen of our night--crowned by the unseen sun, Artemis, she that can see the light, when light upon earth is none?

III

Huntress, queen of the dark of the world (no darker at night than noon) Beauty immortal and undefiled, the Eternal sun's white moon, Only by thee and thy silver shafts for a flash can our hearts discern, Pierced to the quick, the love, the love that still thro' the dark doth yearn.

IV

What to his soul were the hill-flowers, what the gold at the break of day Shot thro' the red-stemmed firs to the lake where the swimmer clove his way, What were the quivering harmonies showered from the heaven-tossed heart of the lark, Artemis, Huntress, what were these but thy keen shafts cleaving the dark?

V

Frost of the hedge-row, flash of the jasmine, sparkle of dew on the leaf, Seas lit wide by the summer lightning, shafts from thy diamond sheaf, Deeply they pierced him, deeply he loved thee, now has he found thy soul, Artemis, thine, in this bridal peal, where we hear but the death-bell toll.

THE TESTIMONY OF ART

As earth, sad earth, thrusts many a gloomy cape Into the sea's bright colour and living glee, So do we strive to embay that mystery Which earthly hands must ever let escape; The Word we seek for is the golden shape That shall enshrine the Soul we cannot see, A temporal chalice of Eternity Purple with beating blood of the hallowed grape.

Once was it wine and sacramental bread Whereby we knew the power that through Him smiled When, in one still small utterance, He hurled The Eternities beneath His feet and said With lips, O meek as any little child, _Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world._

THE SCHOLARS

Where is the scholar whose clear mind can hold The floral text of one sweet April mead?-- The flowing lines, which few can spell indeed Though most will note the scarlet and the gold Around the flouris.h.i.+ng capitals grandly scrolled; But ah, the subtle cadences that need The lover's heart, the lover's heart to read, And ah, the songs unsung, the tales untold.

Poor fools-capped scholars--grammar keeps us close, The primers thrall us, and our eyes grow dim: When will old Master Science hear the call, Bid us run free with life in every limb To breathe the poems and hear the last red rose Gossiping over G.o.d's grey garden-wall?

RESURRECTION

Once more I hear the everlasting sea Breathing beneath the mountain's fragrant breast, _Come unto Me, come unto Me, And I will give you rest._

We have destroyed the Temple and in three days He hath rebuilt it--all things are made new: And hark what wild throats pour His praise Beneath the boundless blue.

We plucked down all His altars, cried aloud And gashed ourselves for little G.o.ds of clay!

Yon floating cloud was but a cloud, The May no more than May.

We plucked down all His altars, left not one Save where, perchance (and ah, the joy was fleet), We laid our garlands in the sun At the white Sea-born's feet.

We plucked down all His altars, not to make The small praise greater, but the great praise less, We sealed all fountains where the soul could slake Its thirst and weariness.

"Love" was too small, too human to be found In that transcendent source whence love was born: We talked of "forces": heaven was crowned With philosophic thorn.

"Your G.o.d is in your image," we cried, but O, 'Twas only man's own deepest heart ye gave, Knowing that He transcended all ye know, While we--we dug His grave.

Denied Him even the crown on our own brow, E'en these poor symbols of His loftier reign, Levelled His Temple with the dust, and now He is risen, He is risen again,

Risen, like this resurrection of the year, This grand ascension of the choral spring, Which those harp-crowded heavens bend to hear And meet upon the wing.