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And then my pa.s.sing from cell to clay, Dreamily, dreamily!
My gray head lying on ashes gray, Sleepily, sleepily!
But no woman-angel hovering above, Ready to clasp me in deathless love!
Now, now, ah, now! thy hand in mine, Peacefully, peacefully; My arm round thee, and my lips on thine, Lovingly, lovingly-- Oh! is not a better thing to us given Than wearily going alone to heaven?
_MY HEART_.
I.
Night, with her power to silence day, Filled up my lonely room, Quenching all sounds but one that lay Beyond her pa.s.sing doom, Where in his shed a workman gay Went on despite the gloom.
I listened, and I knew the sound, And the trade that he was plying; For backwards, forwards, bound on bound, A shuttle was flying, flying-- Weaving ever--till, all unwound, The weft go out a sighing.
II.
As hidden in thy chamber lowest As in the sky the lark, Thou, mystic thing, on working goest Without the poorest spark, And yet light's garment round me throwest, Who else, as thou, were dark.
With body ever clothing me, Thou mak'st me child of light; I look, and, Lo, the earth and sea, The sky's rejoicing height, A woven glory, globed by thee, Unknowing of thy might!
And when thy darkling labours fail, And thy shuttle moveless lies, My world will drop, like untied veil From before a lady's eyes; Or, all night read, a finished tale That in the morning dies.
III.
Yet not in vain dost thou unroll The stars, the world, the seas-- A mighty, wonder-painted scroll Of Patmos mysteries, Thou mediator 'twixt my soul And higher things than these!
Thy holy ephod bound on me, I pa.s.s into a seer; For still in things thou mak'st me see, The unseen grows more clear; Still their indwelling Deity Speaks plainer in mine ear.
Divinely taught the craftsman is Who waketh wonderings; Whose web, the nursing chrysalis Round Psyche's folded wings, To them transfers the loveliness Of its inwoven things.
Yet joy when thou shalt cease to beat!-- For a greater heart beats on, Whose better texture follows fleet On thy last thread outrun, With a seamless-woven garment, meet To clothe a death-born son.
_THE FLOWER-ANGELS_.
Of old, with goodwill from the skies-- G.o.d's message to them given-- The angels came, a glad surprise, And went again to heaven.
But now the angels are grown rare, Needed no more as then; Far lowlier messengers can bear G.o.d's goodwill unto men.
Each year, the snowdrops' pallid dawn Breaks from the earth below; Light spreads, till, from the dark updrawn, The noontide roses glow.
The snowdrops first--the dawning gray; Then out the roses burn!
They speak their word, grow dim--away To holy dust return.
Of oracles were little dearth, Should heaven continue dumb; From lowliest corners of the earth G.o.d's messages will come.
In thy face his we see, O Lord, And are no longer blind; Need not so much his rarer word, In flowers even read his mind.
_TO MY SISTER_,
ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.
I.
Old fables are not all a lie That tell of wondrous birth, Of t.i.tan children, father Sky, And mighty mother Earth.
Yea, now are walking on the ground Sons of the mingled brood; Yea, now upon the earth are found Such daughters of the Good.
Earth-born, my sister, thou art still A daughter of the sky; Oh, climb for ever up the hill Of thy divinity!
To thee thy mother Earth is sweet, Her face to thee is fair; But thou, a G.o.ddess incomplete, Must climb the starry stair.
II.
Wouldst thou the holy hill ascend, Wouldst see the Father's face?
To all his other children bend, And take the lowest place.
Be like a cottage on a moor, A covert from the wind, With burning fire and open door, And welcome free and kind.
Thus humbly doing on the earth The things the earthly scorn, Thou shalt declare the lofty birth Of all the lowly born.
III.
Be then thy sacred womanhood A sign upon thee set, A second baptism--understood-- For what thou must be yet.
For, cause and end of all thy strife, And unrest as thou art, Still stings thee to a higher life The Father at thy heart.
_OH THOU OF LITTLE FAITH_!