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 | The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland |  |
176
The Finer Spirit
I
I saw the painted worlds go by,
And wonder'd what great good could lie
Beneath that dreadful pageantry.
And wonder'd what great good could lie
Beneath that dreadful pageantry.
What lamp of excellent brimming light
Hath kept the immemorial night,
And watches on, in Time's despite?
Hath kept the immemorial night,
And watches on, in Time's despite?
What soul of saving sweetness lends
The affable touch to things, and blends
That which begins and that which ends?
The affable touch to things, and blends
That which begins and that which ends?
II
And one, whose look shone kindness, ran
And fetch'd his sheaf of charts—the plan
“Mark'd out,” he said, “by God for Man.
And fetch'd his sheaf of charts—the plan
“Mark'd out,” he said, “by God for Man.
177
“Look thou! Thus far, and thus, the clear
Seas sparkle; thou mayst pray, and steer
Thy craft with knowledge here, and here;
Seas sparkle; thou mayst pray, and steer
Thy craft with knowledge here, and here;
“But by the vasty marges loom
God's well-set darknesses; the womb
Bears not the man that skills this gloom.”
God's well-set darknesses; the womb
Bears not the man that skills this gloom.”
III
Another, wisely, “We are sure
Of consciousness and some small store
Of facts, as ‘two and two make four.’
Of consciousness and some small store
Of facts, as ‘two and two make four.’
“So nerved and lamp'd may Reason spell
The systems out, and learn to tell
The purport of the inmost cell;
The systems out, and learn to tell
The purport of the inmost cell;
“But ever as she goes, she sees
In new and old simplicities
The old, invincible mysteries.”
In new and old simplicities
The old, invincible mysteries.”
IV
Also another, “Wine and wheat
And oil have we, and liberal heat
Of faithful suns; our pulses beat
And oil have we, and liberal heat
Of faithful suns; our pulses beat
178
“With warmth and warm affections—Love
The chief—and like a blessèd dove
Joy winnows round us as we move;
The chief—and like a blessèd dove
Joy winnows round us as we move;
“And solace cometh for the stroke
And strength to render dear the yoke—
These are enough for honest folk.”
And strength to render dear the yoke—
These are enough for honest folk.”
V
Yet who, that waits for happier skies,
Or searches with assiduous eyes,
Or dreams among the butterflies,
Or searches with assiduous eyes,
Or dreams among the butterflies,
Hath never felt the effulgence full
From off the face of things, and all
The sweetness sicken into gall?
From off the face of things, and all
The sweetness sicken into gall?
Hath never heard the implacable blast
Crying afar through void and vast,
And stood up shuddering and aghast?
Crying afar through void and vast,
And stood up shuddering and aghast?
VI
Yon planet, set out lustrously
Upon the tinted dawn, may be
Some dull immutable agony,
Upon the tinted dawn, may be
Some dull immutable agony,
179
Heavy with hideousness, and fell
And terrible tribes that quake and yell
For ever on the slags of hell;
And terrible tribes that quake and yell
For ever on the slags of hell;
Creatures to whom death is a vain
Vague legend of the prime, ere pain
Bore down and smote them heart and brain.
Vague legend of the prime, ere pain
Bore down and smote them heart and brain.
VII
And this dear earth of green and grey
And gold and blue—our broad highway
And pleasant inn whereat we stay
And gold and blue—our broad highway
And pleasant inn whereat we stay
As travellers lighted luckily
On goodly cheer and company
And chambers lavendered—may be
On goodly cheer and company
And chambers lavendered—may be
Out of the placid ages come
With all its load of life and bloom
Jump to the verge of some wild doom.
With all its load of life and bloom
Jump to the verge of some wild doom.
VIII
She called to me across the flood
Of finish'd years, “Believe thy blood
Which runs a living faith in good!”
Of finish'd years, “Believe thy blood
Which runs a living faith in good!”
180
She called to me out of the still
And molten noon, “Believe thy will
Which, having force, would banish ill!”
And molten noon, “Believe thy will
Which, having force, would banish ill!”
She called to me out of the day
Next to be born, “Believe the clay
Which sends up goodness from decay!
Next to be born, “Believe the clay
Which sends up goodness from decay!
IX
“Here is the earnest to make whole
The parted circlet of the soul,
To crown thy mirth and star thy dole;
The parted circlet of the soul,
To crown thy mirth and star thy dole;
“Here is the essence that hath kept
The centuries sweet, and raced and leapt
In veins that wither'd, eyes that wept;
The centuries sweet, and raced and leapt
In veins that wither'd, eyes that wept;
“Here is the jewel for the brow
The beam to set the light aglow
And to enrose the pinnacled snow.
The beam to set the light aglow
And to enrose the pinnacled snow.
X
“I am the crimson of the rose,
The fair quick flame the crocus shows,
The spice that with the blossom goes,
The fair quick flame the crocus shows,
The spice that with the blossom goes,
181
“The witchery of the thrush's tune,
The surge of March, the flash of June,
The marvel of the reapers' moon,
The surge of March, the flash of June,
The marvel of the reapers' moon,
“And where the winter aches in white
And mists, I haunt the doubtful light
While dwindling suns loom red and bright;
And mists, I haunt the doubtful light
While dwindling suns loom red and bright;
XI
“I am the strength of all the dead,
The wisdom and the goodlihead
And pith of what they did and said;
The wisdom and the goodlihead
And pith of what they did and said;
“I am the beauty that hath stood
Bodied, like a beautitude
In soft, calamitous womanhood
Bodied, like a beautitude
In soft, calamitous womanhood
“From the beginning; and the Rest
Of Saints am I, and all the blest
Rapture of bosoms babes have press'd;
Of Saints am I, and all the blest
Rapture of bosoms babes have press'd;
XII
“And Man, the spirit and the dust
The god that wears the chains, and must
Be still the creature, and still trust
The god that wears the chains, and must
Be still the creature, and still trust
182
“He is not wholly fool and slave,
And live half angel and half knave
To sup with Death and fat the grave;
And live half angel and half knave
To sup with Death and fat the grave;
“Man that is nothing, yet divine
Sifting the creeds for one sure sign
Hath sureness in a look of mine!”
Sifting the creeds for one sure sign
Hath sureness in a look of mine!”
| The Collected Poems of T. W. H. Crosland | |