Beautiful Mother, I am not thy son.
I know from echoes far behind the sky.
I know; I know not why.
Even from thy golden, wide oblivion:
Thy careless leave to help thy harvesting,
Thy leave to work a little, live, and sing;
Thy leave to suffer—yea, to sing and die,
Beautiful Mother! …
Ah, Whose child am I?
Love sang to me. And I went down the stair,
And out into the darkness and the dew;
And bowed myself unto the little grass,
And the blind herbs, and the unshapen dust
Of earth without a face. So let me be.
For as I hear, the singing makes of me
My own desire, and momently I grow.
Yea, all the while with hands of melody,
The singing makes me, out of what I was,
Even as a potter shaping Eden clay.
Ever Love sings, and saith in words that sing,
'Beloved, thus art thou; and even so
Lovely art thou, Beloved!'—Even so,
As the Sea weaves her path before the light,
I hear, I hear, and I am glorified.
Love sang to me, and I am glorified
Because of some commandment in the stars.
And I shall grow in favour and in shining,
Till at the last I am all-beautiful;
Beautiful, for the day Love sings no more.
THE FEASTER
Oh, who will hush that cry outside the doors,
While we are glad within?
Go forth, go forth, all you my servitors;
(And gather close, my kin.)
Go out to her. Tell her we keep a feast,—
Lost Loveliness who will not sit her down
Though we implore.
It is her silence binds me unreleased,
It is her silence that no flute can drown,
It is her moonlit silence at the door,
Wide as the whiteness, but a fire on high
That frights my heart with an immortal Cry,
Calling me evermore.
Louder, you viols;—louder, O my harp;
Let me not hear her voice;
And drown her keener silence, silver-sharp,
With waves of golden noise!
For she is wise as Eden, even mute,
To search my spirit through the deep and height
Again, again.
Outpierce her with your singing, dawnlike flute;
And you, gloom over, viols of the night
With colors lost in umber,—with sweet pain
Of richest world's desire,—prevail, sing down
All memory with pleading, so you drown
Her merciless refrain!
Oh, can you not with music, nor with din,
Save me the stress and stir
In my lone spirit, throned among my kin,
From that same voice of her?—
The never ending query she hath had
Only to wake my Soul, and only then
Wake it to weep?
With 'Why?' and 'Art thou happy? Art thou glad?
And hast thou fellowship with fellow-men?'
So, through my mirth and underneath my sleep;
Her voice,—abysmal hunger unfulfilled;—
The calling, calling, never to be stilled,—
Calling of deep to deep.
But I have that shall fill this wound of mine,
Since Loveliness must be;—
Since Loveliness must save us, or we pine
And perish utterly.
All that the years have left us, undismayed
Of age or death; and happier fair than truth,
—When truth is fair!
Shapes of immortal sweetness, to persuade
Iron and fire and marble to their youth;
Wild graces trapped from the three kingdoms' lair
Of wildest Beauty; shadow and smile and hush;
—Fleet color, of a daybreak, of a blush,
For my sad soul to wear!