No quiet thing, or innocent,
Of water, earth, or air shall please
My soul now: but the violent
Between the sunset and the trees:
The fierce, the splendid, and intense,
Like love matures in innocence,
Like mighty music, give me these!
XLIII
As Nature in herself resolves
All parts of beauty to one whole,
And from the perfect whole evolves
The high ideas that control
Advancement, till the time be ripe
To doff disguise and, type by type,
Reveal the emanated soul:
So should the Beautiful in man
Evolve the best in him; to be
The lofty purpose life began
For ends which only Heaven can see—
The absolute, that sees how thought
Its high ideal’s shape hath wrought
To be its far affinity.
XLIV
I hold them here; they are no less;
I see them still—the changeful grays
Of threatening skies above the haze—
My hills! that roll long, murmuring miles
Of savage-painted wilderness,
On which the saddened sunlight smiles;
Or, like a fallen angel’s frown—
Severe beneath a burning crown—
Through sombre silvers, that oppress
With clouds its glory, rushes down.
I hear the coming storm again;
Again behold the streaming clouds;
The autumn wind drives down and crowds
Wild sibylline voices through the leaves,
To whispering octaves of the rain:
A wilder wind, vibrating, heaves
Vast music through the rolling woods—
Upon my soul the grandeur broods,
Like some archangel’s trumpet strain,
Or organ-pomp that sweeps all moods.
XLV
Such circumstance of passionate praise
Hath no religion; and the creeds
No pomp of worship or of grace
Like Nature’s, standing face to face
With God, whose inmost thought she reads:
No multitude of words she needs,
Since all her worship is one word
Of love, like that creation heard.
God leaves progression in her care:
Through her it must materialize—
Our Mother! with strong lips of prayer,
Majestic-browed, with hands that bare
Immortal fire from the skies:
Who looks, with no evasive eyes,
Through life, and, smiling, sees beneath
The beautiful, dark eyes of death.