Should that morn come, and show thy opened eyes
All that Life’s palpitating tissues feel,
How wilt thou bear thyself in thy surprise?—
Wilt thou destroy, in one wild shock of shame,
Thy whole high heaving firmamental frame,
Or patiently adjust, amend, and heal?
THE BULLFINCHES
Brother Bulleys, let us sing
From the dawn till evening!—
For we know not that we go not
When the day’s pale pinions fold
Unto those who sang of old.
When I flew to Blackmoor Vale,
Whence the green-gowned faeries hail,
Roosting near them I could hear them
Speak of queenly Nature’s ways,
Means, and moods,—well known to fays.
All we creatures, nigh and far
(Said they there), the Mother’s are:
Yet she never shows endeavour
To protect from warrings wild
Bird or beast she calls her child.
Busy in her handsome house
Known as Space, she falls a-drowse;
Yet, in seeming, works on dreaming,
While beneath her groping hands
Fiends make havoc in her bands.
How her hussif’ry succeeds
She unknows or she unheeds,
All things making for Death’s taking!
—So the green-gowned faeries say
Living over Blackmoor way.
Come then, brethren, let us sing,
From the dawn till evening!—
For we know not that we go not
When the day’s pale pinions fold
Unto those who sang of old.