Past horned head and ponderous chestnut flank,
The fitful light-dance swings along the floor,
And wanders to the star-specked aqueous blank
Made by the sliding open of the door;
A snowy feather, where the pigeons soar,
Wavers adown, and odors keen and rank
Filter through darkness of a Minster-grey
Where filmy cobwebs swim along the hay.
Perhaps these beasts of burden wait once more
For Wise Men, and a Shining all around,
To see Redemption by the Manger door,
Illumined faces on the rushy ground;
Perhaps they draw their slow breath, tranced and bound,
Instinctly taught that they new forms shall wear,
Who shall some day be swift, no burdens bear,
And have their tongues made eloquent in sound.
But, if the hallowed shining does not come,
And they look through the dark with unchanged stare,
And if those great grave mouths stay always dumb,
’Twill not be ignorance but some truth they share;
Who have no doubts, no clamorings and no fears,
But faithful to the clumsy guise they wear,
Walk patient down their plodding driven years.
While we in princedoms of our God’s own form,
Wistfully pause in their oblivioned light,
Longing to stay with uncouth beasts tonight;
For that their calm would keep our spirits warm
And soothe us back to the glad human norm.
Would gladly share with them their sacred things,
Their freedom from our restless questionings,
So we won quietude from stress and storm.
Mingling our vigil with their Burden-Speech,
Their revery.
We would take of that wisdom they can teach,
Learn how this comes to be ...
That brooding in the silent darkness here,
Slaves of a labor lasting all the year,
They, and not we,
Become the Masters of Tranquility!
VISION.
I saw the Search-light, like a seraph, fly
Over the water’s moved mysterious face,
Bridging the harbor, pushing darkness by,
Pouring its flood upon a far-off place.
I thought—no gleam can travel where they wait,
No human light throws silver on their shore;
Their crystal Sea’s unmargined like the great
Love which they know, and rest in evermore.
I thought—no light can show the flowers they bear,
Their heaven-looks, the tender things they say;
No light reveals the raiment that they wear,
Nor all the bliss of their unwearied Day.
And yet, who knows? So long have yearning men
Turned to those borders searching, wistful, gaze;
What stainless light may flash upon our ken,
What glorious faces smile at our amaze?