V
TIRESIAS, with thy wreath, not thou!
Gray prophet of the fount of Thebes, behold
A prophet neither blind nor old,
Spare and of solemn brow,
Is risen to make all young:
He dwells among
The freshets of the stream. Come to the Waters;
O Sons of Adam, haste, and Eva’s daughters!
This revel, children, is a revelry
Ascetic, of a joy that cannot be
Unless we fast and pray and wear no wreaths,
Nor brandish cones the forest-fir bequeathes,
Nor make a din—but sweet antiphonies—
Nor blow through organ-reeds to sing to these,
But of ourselves make song: it is a feast,
That by the breath of deserts is increased;
And by ablution in the river lifts
Its grain to crystal—earth so full of gifts
Most exquisite, breaths that are infinite
Of infinite judgment, hesitations light
Of infinite choiceness, life so fine, so fine,
Since of our flesh we welcome the Divine;
Since by our fast and reticence, our food
From honey-bees in haunts of solitude,
O mighty Prophet of the river-bank,
We see that light that makes the sun a blank,
As a white dove makes a whole region dim;
See in the greatness of the great Light’s rim
One we must fall down under would we win
The ecstasy of revel—all our sin
Borne from us by the Wine-Cup in a hand
That bleeds about the vessel’s golden stand,
Bleeds as the white throat of a lamb just slain.
Behold! No Evoe at that poured red stain,
No Evoe—Alleluia! He is dumb:
But let us laud Him, Eleutherius come!
ANNUNCIATIONS
“Blessèd art Thou among women, Mary!”
Through white wings,
The angel brings
Of a Saviour’s birth annunciation—
Tidings of great joy to one afraid.
“Blessèd art thou Simon, son of Jonah!”
In his power,
His smile as dower,
Of His Church’s birth, annunciation
Is by God Himself, no angel, made.
Blessèd art Thou, Mary; blessèd, Peter!
But the grace
Of God’s own face
Is on Peter for annunciation,
When he speaks, by flesh and blood unswayed.
STONES OF THE BROOK
FORTH from a cloud,
Loosed as a greyhound is loosed,
To sweep down the sky,
To sweep down the hill,
A torrent of water unnoosed—
The rain rushes on aloud,
And becometh a stream on the earth, and still
Groweth and spreadeth as its stream sweeps by.
And the stones of its course
Are bright with its joy as it leaps
Around them in might,
Beyond them in joy;
For it sings round the rocky heaps,
From the brightness of its force;
Nor can pebbles nor boulders of granite cloy
In their multitude the stream’s delight.
With a torrent’s bliss,
The Martyr Stephen receives
The stones for his head,
The stones for his breast,
And smiles from his strength that believes:
“Sweet stones of the brook!”—for this
Is the singing, the song of his heart expressed,
As he kneels, looking up, his hands outspread.