And rising, with both arms stretched forth, and head Bowed earthward, and not turning once I ran ; And what things saw me as I raced by them, What hands plucked at my dress, what light wings brushed My face, what waters in my hearing seethed, I know not, till I reached familiar lands, And saw grey clouds slow gathering for the night, Above sweet fields, whence the June mowers strolled Homewards with girls who chatted down the lane. Is this the secret lying round the world? A Dread One watching with unlidded eye Slow century after century from his heaven, And that great lord, the worm of the red plain, Coiling his solitary strength along Slow century after century, conscious each How in the life of his Arch-enemy He lives, how ruin of one confounds the pair,— Is this the eternal dual mystery? One Source of being, Light, or Love, or Lord, Still bathe us in thy tides of day and night; Drenched in the sun and air and surge of Thee. THE MORNING STAR. I. Backward betwixt the gates of steepest heaven, Faint from the insupportable advance Of light confederate in the East, is driven The starry chivalry, and helm and lance, Which held keen ward upon the shadowy plain, Yield to the stress and stern predominance Of Day; no wanderer morning-moon awane Floats through dishevelled clouds, exanimate, In disarray, with gaze of weariest pain ; O thou sole Splendour, sprung to vindicate Night's ancient fame, thou in dread strife serene, With back-blown locks, joyous yet desperate Flamest; from whose pure ardour Earth doth win High passionate pangs, thou radiant paladin. II. Nay; strife must cease in song: far-sent and clear Piercing the silence of this summer morn I hear thy swan-song rapturous; I hear Life's ecstasy; sharp cries of flames which burn With palpitating joy, intense and pure, From altars of the universe, and yearn In eager spires; and under these the sure Strong ecstasy of Death, in phrase too deep For thought, too bright for dim investiture Of mortal words, and sinking more than sleep Down holier places of the soul's delight; Cry, through the quickening dawn, to us who creep 'Mid dreams and dews of the dividing night, Thou searcher of the darkness and the light. III. I seek thee, and thou art not; for the sky Virtuous to make wide heaven's tranquillity More tranquil, and her steadfast truth more true, Yea even her overbowed infinity Of tenderness, when o'er wet woods the blue Shows past white edges of a sundering cloud More infinitely tender. Day is new, Night ended; how the hills are overflowed With spaciousness of splendour, and each tree Is touched; only not yet the lark is loud Since viewless still o'er city and plain and sea Vibrates thy spirit-wingèd ecstasy. |