is fit the bloodroot in white hood
Should brave the parting winter's mood,—
Come, thou, pale violet, streaked, sweet-scented,
Beside the runs of this tempered wood.
I hunger for thy gentle face,
Sweetest of all the wildwood race!
O flower, at once ideal and essence,
Why stayest thou from thy wonted place?
Thou art not dead? Nay, when death crept
Upon thy form, thy full life leapt
Defiance at the harsh destroyer,
And slept as seed! Thou hast overslept.
he sweep, O heart, of Love's account!
Hearken: "I am of life the Fount;
All are within My deeps of Being,
The toiling city, the sea, the mount.
"Yea, when thou cleav'st the pillared tree,
Raisest the stone, I am with thee;
Darkness and light, flux and becoming,
Signal My presence, and ceaselessly.
"Regard Me not as though afar;
Ope thine heart's eyes, and, lo, My Star
Burns 'neath Time's vesture, true Shekinah,
Centre and Soul of the things that are."