Yet must keep pace and tarry, patient, kind, With its unwilling scholar, the dull, tardy mind;Must be obsequious to the body's powers, Whose low hands mete its paths, set ope and close its ways;Must do obeisance to the days, And wait the little pleasure of the hours;Yea, ripe for kingship, yet must be Captive in statuted minority!
So is all power fulfilled, as soul in thee.
So still the ruler by the ruled takes rule, And wisdom weaves itself i' the loom o' the fool.
The splendent sun no splendour can display, Till on gross things he dash his broken ray, From cloud and tree and flower re-tossed in prismy spray.
Did not obstruction's vessel hem it in, Force were not force, would spill itself in vain We know the Titan by his champed chain.
Stay is heat's cradle, it is rocked therein, And by check's hand is burnished into light;If hate were none, would love burn lowlier bright?
God's Fair were guessed scarce but for opposite sin;Yea, and His Mercy, I do think it well, Is flashed back from the brazen gates of Hell.
The heavens decree All power fulfil itself as soul in thee.
For supreme Spirit subject was to clay, And Law from its own servants learned a law, And Light besought a lamp unto its way, And Awe was reined in awe, At one small house of Nazareth;And Golgotha Saw Breath to breathlessness resign its breath, And Life do homage for its crown to death.
So is all power, as soul in thee increased!
But, knowing this, in knowledge's despite I fret against the law severe that stains Thy spirit with eclipse;When--as a nymph's carven head sweet water drips, For others oozing so the cool delight Which cannot steep her stiffened mouth of stone -Thy nescient lips repeat maternal strains.
Memnonian lips!
Smitten with singing from thy mother's east, And murmurous with music not their own:
Nay, the lips flexile, while the mind alone A passionless statue stands.
Oh, pardon, innocent one!
Pardon at thine unconscious hands!
"Murmurous with music not their own," I say?
And in that saying how do I missay, When from the common sands Of poorest common speech of common day Thine accents sift the golden musics out!
And ah, we poets, I misdoubt, Are little more than thou!
We speak a lesson taught we know not how, And what it is that from us flows The hearer better than the utterer knows.
Thou canst foreshape thy word;
The poet is not lord Of the next syllable may come With the returning pendulum;And what he plans to-day in song, To-morrow sings it in another tongue.
Where the last leaf fell from his bough, He knows not if a leaf shall grow, Where he sows he doth not reap, He reapeth where he did not sow;He sleeps, and dreams forsake his sleep To meet him on his waking way.
Vision will mate him not by law and vow:
Disguised in life's most hodden-grey, By the most beaten road of everyday She waits him, unsuspected and unknown.
The hardest pang whereon He lays his mutinous head may be a Jacob's stone.
In the most iron crag his foot can tread A Dream may strew her bed, And suddenly his limbs entwine, And draw him down through rock as sea-nymphs might through brine.
But, unlike those feigned temptress-ladies who In guerdon of a night the lover slew, When the embrace has failed, the rapture fled, Not he, not he, the wild sweet witch is dead!
And, though he cherisheth The babe most strangely born from out her death, Some tender trick of her it hath, maybe, -It is not she!
Yet, even as the air is rumorous of fray Before the first shafts of the sun's onslaught From gloom's black harness splinter, And Summer move on Winter With the trumpet of the March, and the pennon of the May;As gesture outstrips thought;
So, haply, toyer with ethereal strings!
Are thy blind repetitions of high things The murmurous gnats whose aimless hoverings Reveal song's summer in the air;The outstretched hand, which cannot thought declare, Yet is thought's harbinger.
These strains the way for thine own strains prepare;We feel the music moist upon this breeze, And hope the congregating poesies.
Sundered yet by thee from us Wait, with wild eyes luminous, All thy winged things that are to be;They flit against thee, Gate of Ivory!
They clamour on the portress Destiny, -
"Set her wide, so we may issue through!
Our vans are quick for that they have to do Suffer still your young desire;Your plumes but bicker at the tips with fire, Tarry their kindling; they will beat the higher.
And thou, bright girl, not long shalt thou repeat Idly the music from thy mother caught;Not vainly has she wrought, Not vainly from the cloudward-jetting turret Of her aerial mind, for thy weak feet, Let down the silken ladder of her thought.
She bare thee with a double pain, Of the body and the spirit;Thou thy fleshly weeds hast ta'en, Thy diviner weeds inherit!
The precious streams which through thy young lips roll Shall leave their lovely delta in thy soul:
Where sprites of so essential kind Set their paces, Surely they shall leave behind The green traces Of their sportance in the mind, And thou shalt, ere we well may know it, Turn that daintiness, a poet, -Elfin-ring Where sweet fancies foot and sing.
So it may be, so it SHALL be, -
Oh, take the prophecy from me!
What if the old fastidious sculptor, Time, This crescent marvel of his hands Carveth all too painfully, And I who prophesy shall never see?
What if the niche of its predestined rhyme, Its aching niche, too long expectant stands?
Yet shall he after sore delays On some exultant day of days The white enshrouding childhood raise From thy fair spirit, finished for our gaze;While we (but 'mongst that happy "we"
The prophet cannot be!)
While we behold with no astonishments, With that serene fulfilment of delight Wherewith we view the sight When the stars pitch the golden tents Of their high campment on the plains of night.
Why should amazement be our satellite?
What wonder in such things?
If angels have hereditary wings, If not by Salic law is handed down The poet's crown, To thee, born in the purple of the throne, The laurel must belong:
