 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
193
IMPERFECT REPENTANCE
At such a time—full well I know within
Myself—I wrought a sin.
Light in the eye it had, and little sips
Of honey on the lips.
No sooner done but the light died, and all
The honey became gall.
Then was my soul stone-silent for a space
And whiteness wann'd my face.
Myself—I wrought a sin.
Light in the eye it had, and little sips
Of honey on the lips.
No sooner done but the light died, and all
The honey became gall.
Then was my soul stone-silent for a space
And whiteness wann'd my face.
After a little then again I heard
The music of the word,
And took the absolution sweet and grand
Into my own faith's hand,
And breathed the ozone in the healing breeze
Of sacramental seas.
Out rang my song: ‘My sore distress doth cease,
Pardon I find and peace;
The very plenitude of Love divine
Unboundedly is mine.’
But lo! the step of Time steals slowly on,
And, ever and anon,
The spectre of the sin which I thought lost
Rises, no hated ghost.
Rather, ‘How beautiful,’ my spirit cries,
‘O love! are those grey eyes.
What filmy robes float for me, what rich tunes,
Dim fields, and white half-moons.
The music of the word,
And took the absolution sweet and grand
Into my own faith's hand,
And breathed the ozone in the healing breeze
Of sacramental seas.
Out rang my song: ‘My sore distress doth cease,
Pardon I find and peace;
The very plenitude of Love divine
Unboundedly is mine.’
194
And, ever and anon,
The spectre of the sin which I thought lost
Rises, no hated ghost.
Rather, ‘How beautiful,’ my spirit cries,
‘O love! are those grey eyes.
What filmy robes float for me, what rich tunes,
Dim fields, and white half-moons.
‘And, while some silver flax-rock in the brown
Rack is turn'd upside down,
The fine disorder'd threads and cloud-fluff thin
Are like thy hair, sweet sin!
And, as we pass, the faint scent rises yet
Of stock and mignonette,
Through the garden looking on the starlit sea—
And my sin kisseth me.
And twice as fair she is as ever of old,
Because not half so bold,—
The grossness of the sense and of the eye
Refined to memory;
The ethereal delicacy of the past
Over fact's coarse world cast
The flexile bough of fancy quivering on
After the bird is gone.’
Rack is turn'd upside down,
The fine disorder'd threads and cloud-fluff thin
Are like thy hair, sweet sin!
And, as we pass, the faint scent rises yet
Of stock and mignonette,
Through the garden looking on the starlit sea—
And my sin kisseth me.
And twice as fair she is as ever of old,
Because not half so bold,—
The grossness of the sense and of the eye
Refined to memory;
The ethereal delicacy of the past
Over fact's coarse world cast
The flexile bough of fancy quivering on
After the bird is gone.’
195
Whereon I thought—‘Alas! the heavy fall.
I am not changed at all.
Look how some fitful hour when smoky gray
Mountain-mists roll away,
The sunshine's magic and creative beams
Transform the white quartz-seams,
Whereof each one that glistens, being wetted,
Seemeth with diamonds fretted,
But, being dried and unlit, it is found
Mere stone, not diamond,—
So seem'd I like a saint upon God's hill
That am a sinner still.
Methought that I, out of the strong black jaw
And iron grasp of law,
Had pass'd over the poor earthly line
Into a land divine,
Where all things are made new, and grace redresses
Us with her tendernesses.
Ah! I who loved the living love its ghost,
And, loving, I am lost.
I am not changed at all.
Look how some fitful hour when smoky gray
Mountain-mists roll away,
The sunshine's magic and creative beams
Transform the white quartz-seams,
Whereof each one that glistens, being wetted,
Seemeth with diamonds fretted,
But, being dried and unlit, it is found
Mere stone, not diamond,—
So seem'd I like a saint upon God's hill
That am a sinner still.
Methought that I, out of the strong black jaw
And iron grasp of law,
Had pass'd over the poor earthly line
Into a land divine,
Where all things are made new, and grace redresses
Us with her tendernesses.
Ah! I who loved the living love its ghost,
And, loving, I am lost.
What shall I say?—that thoughts like these returning
Are scarcely worth the mourning,—
Nay, that they have a beauty in their place,
Disgracing not my grace,
Like green corn-ears ungilded of the suns
Bettering the golden ones?
Not this shall be my argument—but this:
‘See lest thy crown thou miss;
And, that thou hear not one day bitter sentence,
Repent of thy repentance.’
Are scarcely worth the mourning,—
196
Disgracing not my grace,
Like green corn-ears ungilded of the suns
Bettering the golden ones?
Not this shall be my argument—but this:
‘See lest thy crown thou miss;
And, that thou hear not one day bitter sentence,
Repent of thy repentance.’
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