Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold :: :: University of Virginia Library

Brother, I mark how all the many things
Which people these great lands,
The thought, the thunder,
The harp of life that has a thousand strings,
The master with his cosmic hands
Who makes and breaks asunder;
The cheek's delicious rose that turns so pale,
The soul that must be shriven
Ere it may peaceful lie;

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These every one will utter the full tale,
Which unto each is given—
Only do thus and die.

The meanest lichen on the humble stone
Which hardly greets the eye
In garb of yellow,
Has yet a glory on its russet throne
The seat of pure Divinity,
And claims in that its fellow;
It shall express the burden of its life,
The story that it bringeth
Of lesser lights and shades,
And though it have no part in broader strife
Unto itself it singeth—
Only does this and fades.

Nor is the Father, who created all,
Diverse from us herein;
Yet He is dying
In works, that reach perfection but to fall;
And is to every growth akin,
Which speaks some truth in flying.
In each new blossom and in each glad bird,
Which waves a wing or petal
Of splendour and is gone,
He moves and by His spirit they are stirr'd;
He shines in moss and metal,
And then He passes on.

And thus the awful breath of living song
Is mine a moment space,
And it must utter
Whate'er it will—I may not do it wrong;
And I am carried to my place,
A leaf that can but flutter.
I have no choice except to be the note
Whereon a while it lingers,
In tempest from the north
Or sweetness of the south and suns remote;
I feel it like God's fingers,
And then it passes forth.