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 | The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder |  |
“ANGELO, THOU ART THE MASTER”
I
Angelo, thou art the master; for thou in thy art
Compassed the body, the soul; the form and the heart.
Knew where the roots of the spirit are buried and twined,
The springs and the rocks that shall suckle—and torture and bind.
Large was thy soul like the soul of a god that creates—
Converse it held with the stars and the imminent Fates.
Knewest thou—Art is but Beauty perceived and exprest,
And the pang of that Beauty had entered and melted thy breast.
Here by thy Slave, again, after long years do I bow—
Angelo, thou art the master, yea, thou, and but thou.
Compassed the body, the soul; the form and the heart.
Knew where the roots of the spirit are buried and twined,
The springs and the rocks that shall suckle—and torture and bind.
Large was thy soul like the soul of a god that creates—
Converse it held with the stars and the imminent Fates.
Knewest thou—Art is but Beauty perceived and exprest,
And the pang of that Beauty had entered and melted thy breast.
Here by thy Slave, again, after long years do I bow—
Angelo, thou art the master, yea, thou, and but thou.
Here is the crown of all beauty that lives in the world;
Spirit and flesh breathing forth from these lips that are curled
With sweetness and sorrow as never, O, never before,
And from eyes that are heavy with light, and shall weep nevermore;
And lo, at the base of the statue, that monster of shape—
Thorn of the blossom of life, mocking face of the ape.
So cometh morn from the shadow and murk of the night;
From pain springeth joy, and from flame the keen beauty of light.
Spirit and flesh breathing forth from these lips that are curled
With sweetness and sorrow as never, O, never before,
And from eyes that are heavy with light, and shall weep nevermore;
And lo, at the base of the statue, that monster of shape—
Thorn of the blossom of life, mocking face of the ape.
So cometh morn from the shadow and murk of the night;
From pain springeth joy, and from flame the keen beauty of light.
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II
Beauty!—O, well for the hearts that bow down and adore her:
Heart of mine, hold thou in all the world nothing before her.
All the fair universe now to her feet that is clinging
Out of the womb of her leapt with the dawn, and the singing
Of stars. O thou Beautiful!—thee do I worship and praise
In the dark where thy lamps are; again in thy glory of days,
Whose end and beginning thou blessest with piercing delight
Of splendors outspread on the edge of the robe of the night.
Heart of mine, hold thou in all the world nothing before her.
All the fair universe now to her feet that is clinging
Out of the womb of her leapt with the dawn, and the singing
Of stars. O thou Beautiful!—thee do I worship and praise
In the dark where thy lamps are; again in thy glory of days,
Whose end and beginning thou blessest with piercing delight
Of splendors outspread on the edge of the robe of the night.
Ah, that sweetness is sent not to him whose dull spirit would rest
In the bliss of it; no, not the goal, but the passion and quest;
Not the vale, but the desert. O, never soft airs shall awake
Thy Soul to the soul of all Beauty, all heaven, and all wonder;
The summons that comes to thee, mortal, thy spirit to shake,
Shall be the loud clarion's call and the voices of thunder.
In the bliss of it; no, not the goal, but the passion and quest;
Not the vale, but the desert. O, never soft airs shall awake
Thy Soul to the soul of all Beauty, all heaven, and all wonder;
The summons that comes to thee, mortal, thy spirit to shake,
Shall be the loud clarion's call and the voices of thunder.
| The Poems of Richard Watson Gilder | |