Life is in loving: and lonely is he
Who hath not found in the flower and fern,
Song of the bird and the hum of the bee,
Voice and a prayer as of spirits that yearn
Upward forever to fellowship; strive
Bravely for place in the legions of light;
Dauntless of death in the tempest they thrive,
Laugh and are glad of the foe and the fight.
This was my failure, who thought that the feast
Rivalled the rapture of bird on the wing;
Rivalled the lily all robed like a priest;
Smoke of the pollen when rose-censers swing.
This was my folly, who gave for a gown—
Purple and gold, and a bracelet and rings,
Shouts in the streets as I rode through the town—
Life in the love of the kinship of things.
Lazarus! Lazarus! This is my thirst,
Fever from flame of the love I have missed;
Ache of the heart for the friends I have cursed;
Longing for lips that I never have kissed!
Hell is for him who hath never found God
Hid in the bramble that burns by the way;
Findeth Him not in the stone and the clod;
Heareth Him not at the cool of the day.
Hell is for him who hath never found Man!
God and my Brother, I failing to find,
Failed to find me; so my days were a span
Void of the triumph of Spirit and Mind.
Once, I recall, at the table I leaned
Back on the breast of Pomona, my slave,
Saw through the window, with lattice-work screened,
Thee in thy rags, and I laughed! then grew grave:
Up the white street came a Man with a face
Sad with the woe and the pain of the world;
Moving with kingliness, ease, and a grace;
Crowned with wine-coloured hair wavy and curled
Over broad shoulders, so broad that I vowed
Here was Messias—the Samson—the King!
Leaped from the table and joined with the crowd;
Offered my purple, my bracelet, my ring!