Lest I confound the pattern of thy ways,
And weave vainglorious threads into the maze
Of thy mute plan, O thou my silent soul,
Reach out with sudden glory and unroll
The portals of thy subterranean room,
Where fate spins cosmic-shadows at her loom.
Thy gift is like the shining of a star,
Resolute and bright, ever at war
With utter darkness; in the disconsolate night
I lift my face to thy eternal light,
And lo, there is no darkness, only my soul
Pointing the way through all despair and dole.
O thou my dream of dreams, what mighty things
Move within thy compass! What occasion brings
Such solemn pageantry within the space
Of instant adoration! The planets race
Beside thee, while the wings of heaven fan
Allegiance to the sovereign soul of man.
O thou my song of songs, O clear and sweet
I catch the echo of thy passing feet,
Scarce sound or silence, till the last note falls
Like music in a dream of high-domed halls,
Into the outer margin of the night,
Drumming a far-off rhythm in thy flight.
Now thou art lost among the starry crowd
That guard the gates of heaven, their most proud
And radiant captain. Now the night-mists rise
Like ghostly banns between my paradise
And my strong rapture. Now the long hours creep
Past me, crooning their monotone of sleep.
Where is my vision gone? Whither my dream?
How shall these upward-whirling wings redeem
The ponderous inertness of those days
And many morrows yet to come? Time slays
Austere proposals with forgetfulness
Of ultimate design; and mine no less.
There are three merchants in the marketplace
With curious goods; the first dispenses lace
Of such rare fabric that the very folds
And pattern are invisible; he holds
The airy bargain in his hands and cries:
“O, rare old laces for sale! Who buys? Who buys?”
There is another in this strange bazaar,
Who claps his hands and calls: “Gentles, here are
The finest jewels and royal diadem.
Gather ye round, good folk, and look at them!”
These stare and stare,—no jewels do they see,
Only the sunbeams dancing merrily.
There is a third, whose parry, thrust, and cut
Lack only the index of a sword. “Nay, but,”
He cries, “A sharp bride for a clever lad!
No keener blade than this is to be had
In all the forgeries of Damask town.
Whose is the mind to take her for his own?”
And round about the crowd grins stupidly,
Half credulous that in this hoax might be
Some miracle, some Merlin transmutation
Of air, through secret conversation
With slant-eyed pixies or bearded genii;
So none dare damn the thing a knavish lie.
Not in the marketplace of mountebanks,
Not in rich booths of sanctimonious pranks
Where clever preachers juggle men's needs, and hawk
Splendid illusions puffed with sounding talk,
Shall my rapt ear catch the solemn roll
And lofty panharmonia of my soul.
Ah, no, not there, but in the lonely places,
Upon some broken hill, whose scarred brow faces
Emotionless, with imperturbable pride,
The malice of the thunder-kings that ride
The horses of the storm. Ah, there shall I find
The echo of thy voice upon the wind!
And weave vainglorious threads into the maze
Of thy mute plan, O thou my silent soul,
Reach out with sudden glory and unroll
The portals of thy subterranean room,
Where fate spins cosmic-shadows at her loom.
Thy gift is like the shining of a star,
Resolute and bright, ever at war
With utter darkness; in the disconsolate night
I lift my face to thy eternal light,
And lo, there is no darkness, only my soul
Pointing the way through all despair and dole.
O thou my dream of dreams, what mighty things
Move within thy compass! What occasion brings
Such solemn pageantry within the space
Of instant adoration! The planets race
Beside thee, while the wings of heaven fan
Allegiance to the sovereign soul of man.
O thou my song of songs, O clear and sweet
I catch the echo of thy passing feet,
Scarce sound or silence, till the last note falls
Like music in a dream of high-domed halls,
Into the outer margin of the night,
Drumming a far-off rhythm in thy flight.
Now thou art lost among the starry crowd
That guard the gates of heaven, their most proud
And radiant captain. Now the night-mists rise
Like ghostly banns between my paradise
And my strong rapture. Now the long hours creep
Past me, crooning their monotone of sleep.
Where is my vision gone? Whither my dream?
How shall these upward-whirling wings redeem
The ponderous inertness of those days
And many morrows yet to come? Time slays
Austere proposals with forgetfulness
Of ultimate design; and mine no less.
There are three merchants in the marketplace
With curious goods; the first dispenses lace
Of such rare fabric that the very folds
And pattern are invisible; he holds
The airy bargain in his hands and cries:
“O, rare old laces for sale! Who buys? Who buys?”
There is another in this strange bazaar,
Who claps his hands and calls: “Gentles, here are
The finest jewels and royal diadem.
Gather ye round, good folk, and look at them!”
These stare and stare,—no jewels do they see,
Only the sunbeams dancing merrily.
There is a third, whose parry, thrust, and cut
Lack only the index of a sword. “Nay, but,”
He cries, “A sharp bride for a clever lad!
No keener blade than this is to be had
In all the forgeries of Damask town.
Whose is the mind to take her for his own?”
And round about the crowd grins stupidly,
Half credulous that in this hoax might be
Some miracle, some Merlin transmutation
Of air, through secret conversation
With slant-eyed pixies or bearded genii;
So none dare damn the thing a knavish lie.
Not in the marketplace of mountebanks,
Not in rich booths of sanctimonious pranks
Where clever preachers juggle men's needs, and hawk
Splendid illusions puffed with sounding talk,
Shall my rapt ear catch the solemn roll
And lofty panharmonia of my soul.
Ah, no, not there, but in the lonely places,
Upon some broken hill, whose scarred brow faces
Emotionless, with imperturbable pride,
The malice of the thunder-kings that ride
The horses of the storm. Ah, there shall I find
The echo of thy voice upon the wind!