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203
RECOGNITION
And shall they say thou knowest me no more,
After this human flesh which we wear still,
Than I am known by light waves on the shore,
Or breezes blowing round a sunny hill?
Ah! there be some who bid us mourners dwell
With Nature's sympathies, so shall it be well.
After this human flesh which we wear still,
Than I am known by light waves on the shore,
Or breezes blowing round a sunny hill?
Ah! there be some who bid us mourners dwell
With Nature's sympathies, so shall it be well.
Mystic condolences of morn and eve
Shall touch the heartache tenderly away,
The rivers and the great woods interweave
A consolation lips can never say;
And with the sighing of the summer sea
Come cadences that chant, ‘We pity thee.’
Shall touch the heartache tenderly away,
The rivers and the great woods interweave
A consolation lips can never say;
And with the sighing of the summer sea
Come cadences that chant, ‘We pity thee.’
It is not so; who truly mourn shall trace
Something sardonic in that fixed regard,
The quiet sarcasm of a great cold face
Staring for ever on, terribly starred—
A silver depth of delicate despair,
An uncompassionate silence everywhere.
Something sardonic in that fixed regard,
The quiet sarcasm of a great cold face
Staring for ever on, terribly starred—
204
An uncompassionate silence everywhere.
How speaks that pitiless power impersonal?
I who stand stirless on the starlit tracts;
I who impalpably pervade the All;
I who am white on the long cataracts;
I through æonian centuries who perform
Instinct of spring, or impulse of the storm;
I who stand stirless on the starlit tracts;
I who impalpably pervade the All;
I who am white on the long cataracts;
I through æonian centuries who perform
Instinct of spring, or impulse of the storm;
I in the greenwood who at May-time move
With straggling clouds of hyacinth dark blue;
Who neither laugh nor weep, nor hate nor love,
Who sleep at once and work, both old and new—
Work with such myriad wheels that interlace,
Sleep with such splendid dreams upon my face;—
With straggling clouds of hyacinth dark blue;
Who neither laugh nor weep, nor hate nor love,
Who sleep at once and work, both old and new—
Work with such myriad wheels that interlace,
Sleep with such splendid dreams upon my face;—
When thou hast asked me, ‘Are my loved ones near?
Surely this golden silence doth contain
Them deathlessly; their dim eyes hold some tear
Delicious, born not of the showers of pain’—
When thou hast questioned me at hush of eve,
What right hast thou to say that I deceive?
Surely this golden silence doth contain
Them deathlessly; their dim eyes hold some tear
Delicious, born not of the showers of pain’—
When thou hast questioned me at hush of eve,
What right hast thou to say that I deceive?
205
Perhaps they say, ‘I pardon thee that wrong—
Nay, love thee more divinely for it all’;
Perhaps they strengthen thee when thou art strong,
Perhaps they walk with thee when shadows fall.
But this is all I have for thee; the fair
Absolute certitude is other where.
Nay, love thee more divinely for it all’;
Perhaps they strengthen thee when thou art strong,
Perhaps they walk with thee when shadows fall.
But this is all I have for thee; the fair
Absolute certitude is other where.
Think'st thou of me bathed in the sea of bliss?
Art thou unmindful of me, holy mind?
Thou who of light hast entered the abyss,
Art thou with God's great splendour intertwined,
A chalice with His fulness filled too high
For wine-drops of earth's coloured memory?
Art thou unmindful of me, holy mind?
Thou who of light hast entered the abyss,
Art thou with God's great splendour intertwined,
A chalice with His fulness filled too high
For wine-drops of earth's coloured memory?
Then must I think of thee, my darling, aye,
As I might think upon some lucent tide;
As I might think of some fair summer day,
Profuse of shadows on the mountain-side;
As I might think of the high snows far kenned,
A cold white splendid quiet without end?
As I might think upon some lucent tide;
As I might think of some fair summer day,
Profuse of shadows on the mountain-side;
As I might think of the high snows far kenned,
A cold white splendid quiet without end?
206
Nay, that were life which truly liveth not,
Life lower than our life, and not above.
Thou, thou art near to God in thy fair lot;
Nearer to God is fuller of God's love—
Fuller of Him who looks on us to bless,
Who is impassible, not compassionless.
Life lower than our life, and not above.
Thou, thou art near to God in thy fair lot;
Nearer to God is fuller of God's love—
Fuller of Him who looks on us to bless,
Who is impassible, not compassionless.
God's life is to have mercy and forgive;
One spirit with Him, thou, my Girard art;
Wherefore thro' that great life which thou dost live
There is unsuffering sympathy in thy heart.
Thou carest, though no care can pass thy gate,
And passioning not art still compassionate.
One spirit with Him, thou, my Girard art;
Wherefore thro' that great life which thou dost live
There is unsuffering sympathy in thy heart.
Thou carest, though no care can pass thy gate,
And passioning not art still compassionate.
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