Chapter 16

There may be seeming calm above, but no!-- There is a pulse below which ceases not, A subterranean working, fiery hot, Deep in the million-hearted bosom, though Earthquakes unlock not the prodigious show Of elemental conflict; and this spot Nurses most quiet bones which lie and rot, And here the humblest weeds take root and grow. There is a calm upon the mighty sea, Yet are its depths alive and full of being, Enormous bulks that move unwieldily; Yet, pore we on it, they are past our seeing!-- From the deep sea-weed fields, though wide and ample, Comes there no rushing sound: _these_ do not trample!

_POWER._

Power that is not of God, however great, Is but the downward rushing and the glare Of a swift meteor that hath lost its share In the one impulse which doth animate The parent mass: emblem to me of fate! Which through vast nightly wastes doth onward fare, Wild-eyed and headlong, rent away from prayer-- A moment brilliant, then most desolate! And, O my brothers, shall we ever learn From all the things we see continually That pride is but the empty mockery Of what is strong in man! Not so the stern And sweet repose of soul which we can earn Only through reverence and humility!

_DEATH._

Yes, there is one who makes us all lay down Our mushroom vanities, our speculations, Our well-set theories and calculations, Our workman's jacket or our monarch's crown! To him alike the country and the town, Barbaric hordes or civilized nations, Men of all names and ranks and occupations, Squire, parson, lawyer, Jones, or Smith, or Brown! He stops the carter: the uplifted whip Falls dreamily among the horses' straw; He stops the helmsman, and the gallant ship Holdeth to westward by another law; No one will see him, no one ever saw, But he sees all and lets not any slip.

_THAT HOLY THING._

They all were looking for a king To slay their foes, and lift them high: Thou cam'st a little baby thing That made a woman cry.

O son of man, to right my lot Nought but thy presence can avail; Yet on the road thy wheels are not, Nor on the sea thy sail!

My fancied ways why shouldst thou heed? Thou com'st down thine own secret stair: Com'st down to answer all my need, Yea, every bygone prayer!

_FROM NOVALIS_.

Uplifted is the stone And all mankind arisen! We are thy very own, We are no more in prison! What bitterest grief can stay Beside thy golden cup, When earth and life give way And with our Lord we sup!

To the marriage Death doth call, The lamps are burning clear, The virgins, ready all, Have for their oil no fear. Would that even now were ringing The distance with thy throng! And that the stars were singing To us a human song!

Courage! for life is hasting To endless life away; The inward fire, unwasting, Transfigures our dull clay! See the stars melting, sinking In life-wine golden-bright! We, of the splendour drinking, Shall grow to stars of light.

Lost, lost are all our losses! Love is for ever free! The full life heaves and tosses Like an unbounded sea! One live, eternal story! One poem high and broad! And sun of all our glory The countenance of God!

_WHAT MAN IS THERE OF YOU?_

The homely words how often read! How seldom fully known! "Which father of you, asked for bread, Would give his son a stone?"

How oft has bitter tear been shed, And heaved how many a groan, Because thou wouldst not give for bread The thing that was a stone!

How oft the child thou wouldst have fed, Thy gift away has thrown! He prayed, thou heard'st, and gav'st the bread: He cried, "It is a stone!"

Lord, if I ask in doubt and dread Lest I be left to moan, Am I not he who, asked for bread, Would give his son a stone?

_O WIND OF GOD._

O wind of God, that blowest in the mind, Blow, blow and wake the gentle spring in me; Blow, swifter blow, a strong warm summer wind, Till all the flowers with eyes come out to see; Blow till the fruit hangs red on every tree, And our high-soaring song-larks meet thy dove-- High the imperfect soars, descends the perfect love!

Blow not the less though winter cometh then; Blow, wind of God, blow hither changes keen; Let the spring creep into the ground again, The flowers close all their eyes and not be seen: All lives in thee that ever once hath been! Blow, fill my upper air with icy storms; Breathe cold, O wind of God, and kill my cankerworms.

_SHALL THE DEAD PRAISE THEE?_

I cannot praise thee. By his instrument The master sits, and moves nor foot nor hand; For see the organ-pipes this, that way bent, Leaning, o'erthrown, like wheat-stalks tempest-fanned!

I well could praise thee for a flower, a dove, But not for life that is not life in me; Not for a being that is less than love-- A barren shoal half lifted from a sea!

Unto a land where no wind bloweth ships Thy wind one day will blow me to my own: Rather I'd kiss no more their loving lips Than carry them a heart so poor and prone!

I bless thee, Father, thou art what thou art, That thou dost know thyself what thou dost know-- A perfect, simple, tender, rhythmic heart, Beating its blood to all in bounteous flow.

And I can bless thee too for every smart, For every disappointment, ache, and fear; For every hook thou fixest in my heart, For every burning cord that draws me near.

But prayer these wake, not song. Thyself I crave. Come thou, or all thy gifts away I fling. Thou silent, I am but an empty grave: Think to me, Father, and I am a king!

My organ-pipes will then stand up awake, Their life soar, as from smouldering wood the blaze; And swift contending harmonies shall shake Thy windows with a storm of jubilant praise.

_A YEAR SONG._

Sighing above, Rustling below, Thorough the woods The winds go. Beneath, dead crowds; Above, life bare; And the besom tempest Sweeps the air: _Heart, leave thy woe: Let the dead things go._

Through the brown Gold doth push; Misty green Veils the bush. Here a twitter, There a croak! They are coming-- The spring-folk! _Heart, be not numb; Let the live things come._

Through the beech The winds go, With gentle speech, Long and slow. The grass is fine, And soft to lie in: The sun doth shine The blue sky in: _Heart, be alive; Let the new things thrive._

Round again! Here art thou, A rimy fruit On a bare bough! Winter comes, Winter and snow; And a weary sighing To fall and go! _Heart, thy hour shall be; Thy dead will comfort thee._

_SONG_.

Why do the houses stand When they that built them are gone; When remaineth even of one That lived there and loved and planned Not a face, not an eye, not a hand, Only here and there a bone? Why do the houses stand When they who built them are gone?

Oft in the moonlighted land When the day is overblown, With happy memorial moan Sweet ghosts in a loving band Roam through the houses that stand-- For the builders are not gone.

_FOR WHERE YOUR TREASURE IS, THERE WILL YOUR HEART BE ALSO._

The miser lay on his lonely bed; Life's candle was burning dim. His heart in an iron chest was hid Under heaps of gold and an iron lid; And whether it were alive or dead It never troubled him.

Slowly out of his body he crept. He said, "I am just the same! Only I want my heart in my breast; I will go and fetch it out of my chest!" Through the dark a darker shadow he leapt, Saying "Hell is a fabled flame!"

He opened the lid. Oh, Hell's own night! His ghost-eyes saw no gold!-- Empty and swept! Not a gleam was there! In goes his hand, but the chest is bare! Ghost-fingers, aha! have only might To close, not to clasp and hold!

But his heart he saw, and he made a clutch At the fungous puff-ball of sin: Eaten with moths, and fretted with rust, He grasped a handful of rotten dust, And shrieked, as ghosts may, at the crumbling touch, But hid it his breast within.

And some there are who see him sit Under the church, apart, Counting out coins and coins of gold Heap by heap on the dank death-mould: Alas poor ghost and his sore lack of wit-- They breed in the dust of his heart!

Another miser has now his chest, And it hoards wealth more and more; Like ferrets his hands go in and out, Burrowing, tossing the gold about-- Nor heed the heart that, gone from his breast, Is the cold heap's bloodless core.

Now wherein differ old ghosts that sit Counting ghost-coins all day From the man who clings with spirit prone To whatever can never be his own? Who will leave the world with not one whit But a heart all eaten away?

_THE ASTHMATIC MAN TO THE SATAN THAT BINDS HIM_.

Satan, avaunt! Nay, take thine hour, Thou canst not daunt, Thou hast no power; Be welcome to thy nest, Though it be in my breast.

Burrow amain; Dig like a mole; Fill every vein With half-burnt coal; Puff the keen dust about, And all to choke me out.

Fill music's ways With creaking cries, That no loud praise May climb the skies; And on my labouring chest Lay mountains of unrest.

My slumber steep In dreams of haste, That only sleep, No rest, I taste-- With stiflings, rimes of rote, And fingers on my throat.

Satan, thy might I do defy; Live core of night I patient lie: A wind comes up the gray Will blow thee clean away.

Christ's angel, Death, All radiant white, With one cold breath Will scare thee quite, And give my lungs an air As fresh as answered prayer.

So, Satan, do Thy worst with me Until the True Shall set me free, And end what he began, By making me a man.

_SONG-SERMON._

Lord, what is man That thou art mindful of him! Though in creation's van, Lord, what is man! He wills less than he can, Lets his ideal scoff him! Lord, what is man That thou art mindful of him!

_SHADOWS._

All things are shadows of thee, Lord; The sun himself is but thy shade; My spirit is the shadow of thy word, A thing that thou hast said.

Diamonds are shadows of the sun, They gleam as after him they hark: My soul some arrows of thy light hath won. And feebly fights the dark!

All knowledges are broken shades, In gulfs of dark a scattered horde: Together rush the parted glory-grades-- Then, lo, thy garment, Lord!

My soul, the shadow, still is light Because the shadow falls from thee; I turn, dull candle, to the centre bright, And home flit shadowy.

Shine, Lord; shine me thy shadow still; The brighter I, the more thy shade! My motion be thy lovely moveless will! My darkness, light delayed!

_A WINTER PRAYER._

Come through the gloom of clouded skies, The slow dim rain and fog athwart; Through east winds keen with wrong and lies Come and lift up my hopeless heart.

Come through the sickness and the pain, The sore unrest that tosses still; Through aching dark that hides the gain Come and arouse my fainting will.

Come through the prate of foolish words, The science with no God behind; Through all the pangs of untuned chords Speak wisdom to my shaken mind.

Through all the fears that spirits bow Of what hath been, or may befall, Come down and talk with me, for thou Canst tell me all about them all.

Hear, hear my sad lone heart entreat, Heart of all joy, below, above! Come near and let me kiss thy feet, And name the names of those I love!

_SONG OF A POOR PILGRIM_.

Roses all the rosy way! Roses to the rosier west Where the roses of the day Cling to night's unrosy breast!

Thou who mak'st the roses, why Give to every leaf a thorn? On thy rosy highway I Still am by thy roses torn!

Pardon! I will not mistake These good thorns that make me fret! Goads to urge me, stings to wake, For my freedom they are set.

Yea, on one steep mountain-side, Climbing to a fancied fold, Roses grasped had let me slide But the thorns did keep their hold.

Out of darkness light is born, Out of weakness make me strong: One glad day will every thorn Break into a rose of song.

Though like sparrow sit thy bird Lonely on the house-top dark, By the rosy dawning stirred Up will soar thy praising lark;

Roses, roses all his song! Roses in a gorgeous feast! Roses in a royal throng, Surging, rosing from the east!

_AN EVENING PRAYER_.

I am a bubble Upon thy ever-moving, resting sea: Oh, rest me now from tossing, trespass, trouble! Take me down into thee.

Give me thy peace. My heart is aching with unquietness: Oh, make its inharmonious beating cease! Thy hand upon it press.

My Night! my Day! Swift night and day betwixt, my world doth reel: Potter, take not thy hand from off the clay That whirls upon thy wheel.

O Heart, I cry For love and life, pardon and hope and strength! O Father, I am thine; I shall not die, But I shall sleep at length!

_SONG-SERMON_.

Mercy to thee, O Lord, belongs, For as his work thou giv'st the man. From us, not thee, come all our wrongs; Mercy to thee, O Lord, belongs: With small-cord whips and scorpion thongs Thou lay'st on every ill thy ban. Mercy to thee, O Lord, belongs, For as his work thou giv'st the man.

_A DREAM-SONG_.

The stars are spinning their threads, And the clouds are the dust that flies, And the suns are weaving them up For the day when the sleepers arise.

The ocean in music rolls, The gems are turning to eyes, And the trees are gathering souls For the day when the sleepers arise.

The weepers are learning to smile, And laughter to glean the sighs, And hearts to bury their care and guile For the day when the sleepers arise.

Oh, the dews and the moths and the daisy-red, The larks and the glimmers and flows! The lilies and sparrows and daily bread, And the something that nobody knows!

_CHRISTMAS, 1880._

Great-hearted child, thy very being _The Son_, Who know'st the hearts of all us prodigals;-- For who is prodigal but he who has gone Far from the true to heart it with the false?-- Who, who but thou, that, from the animals', Know'st all the hearts, up to the Father's own, Can tell what it would be to be alone!

Alone! No father!--At the very thought Thou, the eternal light, wast once aghast; A death in death for thee it almost wrought! But thou didst haste, about to breathe thy last, And call'dst out _Father_ ere thy spirit passed, Exhausted in fulfilling not any vow, But doing his will who greater is than thou.

That we might know him, thou didst come and live; That we might find him, thou didst come and die; The son-heart, brother, thy son-being give-- We too would love the father perfectly, And to his bosom go back with the cry, Father, into thy hands I give the heart Which left thee but to learn how good thou art!

There are but two in all the universe-- The father and his children--not a third; Nor, all the weary time, fell any curse! Not once dropped from its nest an unfledged bird But thou wast with it! Never sorrow stirred But a love-pull it was upon the chain That draws the children to the father again!

O Jesus Christ, babe, man, eternal son, Take pity! we are poor where thou art rich: Our hearts are small; and yet there is not one In all thy father's noisy nursery which, Merry, or mourning in its narrow niche, Needs not thy father's heart, this very now, With all his being's being, even as thou!

_RONDEL_.

I do not know thy final will, It is too good for me to know: Thou willest that I mercy show, That I take heed and do no ill, That I the needy warm and fill, Nor stones at any sinner throw; But I know not thy final will-- It is too good for me to know.

I know thy love unspeakable-- For love's sake able to send woe! To find thine own thou lost didst go, And wouldst for men thy blood yet spill!-- How should I know thy final will, Godwise too good for me to know!

_THE SPARROW_.

O Lord, I cannot but believe The birds do sing thy praises then, when they sing to one another, And they are lying seed-sown land when the winter makes them grieve, Their little bosoms breeding songs for the summer to unsmother!

If thou hadst finished me, O Lord, Nor left out of me part of that great gift that goes to singing, I sure had known the meaning high of the songster's praising word, Had known upon what thoughts of thee his pearly talk he was stringing!

I should have read the wisdom hid In the storm-inspired melody of thy thrush's bosom solemn: I should not then have understood what thy free spirit did To make the lark-soprano mount like to a geyser-column!

I think I almost understand Thy owl, his muffled swiftness, moon-round eyes, and intoned hooting; I think I could take up the part of a night-owl in the land, With yellow moon and starry things day-dreamers all confuting.

But 'mong thy creatures that do sing Perhaps of all I likest am to the housetop-haunting sparrow, That flies brief, sudden flights upon a dumpy, fluttering wing, And chirps thy praises from a throat that's very short and narrow.

But if thy sparrow praise thee well By singing well thy song, nor letting noisy traffic quell it, It may be that, in some remote and leafy heavenly dell, He may with a trumpet-throat awake, and a trumpet-song to swell it!

_DECEMBER 23, 1879._

I.

A thousand houses of poesy stand around me everywhere; They fill the earth and they fill my thought, they are in and above the air; But to-night they have shut their doors, they have shut their shining windows fair, And I am left in a desert world, with an aching as if of care.

II.

Cannot I break some little nut and get at the poetry in it? Cannot I break the shining egg of some all but hatched heavenly linnet? Cannot I find some beauty-worm, and its moony cocoon-silk spin it? Cannot I find my all but lost day in the rich content of a minute?

III.

I will sit me down, all aching and tired, in the midst of this never-unclosing Of door or window that makes it look as if truth herself were dozing; I will sit me down and make me a tent, call it poetizing or prosing, Of what may be lying within my reach, things at my poor disposing!

IV.

Now what is nearest?--My conscious self. Here I sit quiet and say: "Lo, I myself am already a house of poetry solemn and gay! But, alas, the windows are shut, all shut: 'tis a cold and foggy day, And I have not now the light to see what is in me the same alway!"

V.

Nay, rather I'll say: "I am a nut in the hard and frozen ground; Above is the damp and frozen air, the cold blue sky all round; And the power of a leafy and branchy tree is in me crushed and bound Till the summer come and set it free from the grave-clothes in which it is wound!"

VI.

But I bethink me of something better!--something better, yea best! "I am lying a voiceless, featherless thing in God's own perfect nest; And the voice and the song are growing within me, slowly lifting my breast; And his wide night-wings are closed about me, for his sun is down in the west!"

VII.

Doors and windows, tents and grave-clothes, winters and eggs and seeds, Ye shall all be opened and broken and torn; ye are but to serve my needs! On the will of the Father all lovely things are strung like a string of beads For his heart to give the obedient child that the will of the father heeds.

_SONG-PRAYER_: AFTER KING DAVID.

I shall be satisfied With the seeing of thy face. When I awake, wide-eyed, I shall be satisfied With what this life did hide, The one supernal grace! I shall be satisfied With the seeing of thy face.

_DECEMBER 27, 1879_

Every time would have its song If the heart were right, Seeing Love all tender-strong Fills the day and night.

Weary drop the hands of Prayer Calling out for peace; Love always and everywhere Sings and does not cease.

Fear, the caitiff, through the night Silent peers about; Love comes singing with a light And doth cast him out.

Hate and Guile and Wrath and Doubt Never try to sing; If they did, oh, what a rout Anguished ears would sting!

Pride indeed will sometimes aim At the finer speech, But the best that he can frame Is a peacock-screech.

Greed will also sometimes try: Happiness he hunts! But his dwelling is a sty, And his tones are grunts.

Faith will sometimes raise a song Soaring up to heaven, Then she will be silent long, And will weep at even.

Hope has many a gladsome note Now and then to pipe; But, alas, he has the throat Of a bird unripe.

Often Joy a stave will start Which the welkin rends, But it always breaks athwart, And untimely ends.

Grief, who still for death doth long, Always self-abhorred, Has but one low, troubled song, _I am sorry, Lord_.

But Love singeth in the vault. Singeth on the stair; Even for Sorrow will not halt, Singeth everywhere.

For the great Love everywhere Over all doth glow; Draws his birds up trough the air, Tends his birds below.

And with songs ascending sheer Love-born Love replies, Singing _Father_ in his ear Where she bleeding lies.

Therefore, if my heart were right I should sing out clear, Sing aloud both day and night Every month in the year!

_SUNDAY_,

DECEMBER 28, 1879.

A dim, vague shrinking haunts my soul, My spirit bodeth ill-- As some far-off restraining bank Had burst, and waters, many a rank, Were marching on my hill;

As if I had no fire within For thoughts to sit about; As if I had no flax to spin, No lamp to lure the good things in And keep the bad things out.

The wind, south-west, raves in the pines That guard my cottage round; The sea-waves fall in stormy lines Below the sandy cliffs and chines, And swell the roaring sound.

The misty air, the bellowing wind Not often trouble me; The storm that's outside of the mind Doth oftener wake my heart to find More peace and liberty.

Why is not such my fate to-night? Chance is not lord of things! Man were indeed a hapless wight Things, thoughts occurring as they might-- Chaotic wallowings!

The man of moods might merely say As by the fire he sat, "I am low spirited to-day; I must do something, work or play, Lest care should kill the cat!"

Not such my saw: I was not meant To be the sport of things! The mood has meaning and intent, And my dull heart is humbly bent To have the truth it brings.

This sense of needed shelter round, This frequent mental start Show what a poor life mine were found, To what a dead self I were bound, How feeble were my heart,

If I who think did stand alone Centre to what I thought, A brain within a box of bone, A king on a deserted throne, A something that was nought!

A being without power to be, Or any power to cease; Whom objects but compelled to see, Whose trouble was a windblown sea, A windless sea his peace!

This very sadness makes me think How readily I might Be driven to reason's farthest brink, Then over it, and sudden sink In ghastly waves of night.

It makes me know when I am glad 'Tis thy strength makes me strong; But for thy bliss I should be sad, But for thy reason should be mad, But for thy right be wrong.

Around me spreads no empty waste, No lordless host of things; My restlessness but seeks thy rest; My little good doth seek thy best, My needs thy ministerings.

'Tis this, this only makes me safe-- I am, immediate, Of one that lives; I am no waif That haggard waters toss and chafe, But of a royal fate,

The born-child of a Power that lives Because it will and can, A Love whose slightest motion gives, A Freedom that forever strives To liberate his Man.

I live not on the circling air, Live not by daily food; I live not even by thinkings fair, I hold my very being there Where God is pondering good.

Because God lives I live; because He thinks, I also think; I am dependent on no laws But on himself, and without pause; Between us hangs no link.

The man that lives he knows not how May well fear any mouse! I should be trembling this same now If I did think, my Father, thou Wast nowhere in the house!