 | Mansoul or The Riddle of the World |  |
As fór me, one of late
Returned from Shadow of former Ages' Death;
To Suns glad Eye and Warmth, on Earths green breast:
Fulfilled with bliss of heart, all day I went;
In sweet-breathed bent; and gathered ín mine hand;
Flowers' gentle living gems, of every kind;
Which there glad daughters of the Sun and dew,
Reborn of the dead year, did blissful blow.
Are nodding wind-flowers, party-white and red;
And blue-bells rife, at entering óf dim wood.
Pale ladies'-smocks, demurely all arrayed,
With folded head, as each had been a bride.
And key-flowers sprung, in bosom of this sod.
Returned from Shadow of former Ages' Death;
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Fulfilled with bliss of heart, all day I went;
In sweet-breathed bent; and gathered ín mine hand;
Flowers' gentle living gems, of every kind;
Which there glad daughters of the Sun and dew,
Reborn of the dead year, did blissful blow.
Are nodding wind-flowers, party-white and red;
And blue-bells rife, at entering óf dim wood.
Pale ladies'-smocks, demurely all arrayed,
With folded head, as each had been a bride.
And key-flowers sprung, in bosom of this sod.
Pied daisies, crowned each with a silver fret;
Starring, mongst cups of gold, in thicket grass;
With eyebright, gentle, únder woodbine bush.
And meadow-sweet, whose gracious plumes aloft,
So nobly meek, our every sense doth greet;
And milk-worts tríple hewed in open lay:
Where, o'er the close-cropt-herb, wafts honied breath,
In Sún-streams; óf bee-nodding thyme and whin.
And o'er all thís, in stíll sequestered place;
Where I a móment tarried, to take breath;
I purple pasque-flowers in fair Sun-kisst plot,
Which blossomed from hill-sod; with joy of heart,
Beheld. Whereof a chronike old, hath taught;
How wingéd spirits, of Angels' heavenly race;
Stoop fróm these vaulted skies, what day they pass,
In Ember tide; as each year their wont is;
To pluck; and bear them ín their bosoms forth.
That lowly, in royal raiment, those prefigure;
His coming, ín heavens glory, with His saints.
Starring, mongst cups of gold, in thicket grass;
With eyebright, gentle, únder woodbine bush.
And meadow-sweet, whose gracious plumes aloft,
So nobly meek, our every sense doth greet;
And milk-worts tríple hewed in open lay:
Where, o'er the close-cropt-herb, wafts honied breath,
In Sún-streams; óf bee-nodding thyme and whin.
And o'er all thís, in stíll sequestered place;
Where I a móment tarried, to take breath;
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Which blossomed from hill-sod; with joy of heart,
Beheld. Whereof a chronike old, hath taught;
How wingéd spirits, of Angels' heavenly race;
Stoop fróm these vaulted skies, what day they pass,
In Ember tide; as each year their wont is;
To pluck; and bear them ín their bosoms forth.
That lowly, in royal raiment, those prefigure;
His coming, ín heavens glory, with His saints.
Know further, thát Culdees
of holy life,
Which walk apart, and dwell in desert place;
Nourished of only herbs, their mortal part;
In cabans óf wreathed boughs and builded sods,
Work of their hands; which, lowly, have renounced,
All pride, all lust and malice of Mans heart:
That heavenly Vision, with pure eyes, have seen.
Which walk apart, and dwell in desert place;
Nourished of only herbs, their mortal part;
In cabans óf wreathed boughs and builded sods,
Work of their hands; which, lowly, have renounced,
All pride, all lust and malice of Mans heart:
That heavenly Vision, with pure eyes, have seen.
Thus, putting flower to flower, my languor late
Dispersed, and come again my lively spirits;
Is goodly in thís quick air, to follow forth;
Full of a silent harmony of the Sun-god.
Dispersed, and come again my lively spirits;
Is goodly in thís quick air, to follow forth;
Full of a silent harmony of the Sun-god.
Daylong I went, in strength of Cædmons bread;
Murmuring as bee-fly doth, in Britains heath;
Souls inarticulate thanksgiving tó high Heaven.
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Souls inarticulate thanksgiving tó high Heaven.
Was that till Suns late going down; when seemed
The skies, with árras hanged and cloth of gold.
Only lone hernshaw, training after her,
Her long lean shanks, late now homeward overflies
Aloft, from fen or rushy mere, to nest.
The skies, with árras hanged and cloth of gold.
Only lone hernshaw, training after her,
Her long lean shanks, late now homeward overflies
Aloft, from fen or rushy mere, to nest.
Sun stoopeth now tó His setting, that hath filled
Days Temple of the wide Heavens, with light divine.
Fadeth thís upland, ás a golden dream;
Whereo'er now, skies their sáffrón curtains' fold:
Leaving to watches of eternal stars,
A slumbering World.
Days Temple of the wide Heavens, with light divine.
Fadeth thís upland, ás a golden dream;
Whereo'er now, skies their sáffrón curtains' fold:
Leaving to watches of eternal stars,
A slumbering World.
Laid is all wind, that spired
O'er holt and heath. In twilight, I approach
Huge soulless marvel, on these breathing wolds;
Which giants once reared, of antique hanging stones,
Immane, unwrought; save that them Titans brayed,
To those rude weathered shapes, with hammer-stones;
And sith set up, an hoar tradition sayeth,
Ere the World was.
O'er holt and heath. In twilight, I approach
Huge soulless marvel, on these breathing wolds;
Which giants once reared, of antique hanging stones,
Immane, unwrought; save that them Titans brayed,
To those rude weathered shapes, with hammer-stones;
And sith set up, an hoar tradition sayeth,
Ere the World was.
Long shadows lie outstretched;
Of yond rude cirque, of pillar and transom work:
Huge ghostly solitude! Come then hour to rest.
I leaned to a mighty craig-stone in their midst,
A shelter in nighttimes wayward wind and wet.
So laid me down; till dáy-spring should shine forth.
Of yond rude cirque, of pillar and transom work:
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I leaned to a mighty craig-stone in their midst,
A shelter in nighttimes wayward wind and wet.
So laid me down; till dáy-spring should shine forth.
| Mansoul or The Riddle of the World | |