 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
VI
DAWN SONG
TREADER of the blue steeps and the hollows under!
Day-Flinger, Hope-Singer, crowned with awful hair!
Battle Lord with burning sword to cleave the gloom asunder!
Plunger through the eyries of the eagles of the Thunder!
Stroller up the flame-arched air!
Day-Flinger, Hope-Singer, crowned with awful hair!
Battle Lord with burning sword to cleave the gloom asunder!
Plunger through the eyries of the eagles of the Thunder!
Stroller up the flame-arched air!
All-Beholder, very swift and tireless your pace is!
Now you snuff the guttered moon above the gray abyss,
Moaning with the sagging tide in shipless ocean spaces;
Now you gladden windless hollows thronged with daisy faces;
Now the corn salutes the Morn that sought Persepolis!
Now you snuff the guttered moon above the gray abyss,
Moaning with the sagging tide in shipless ocean spaces;
Now you gladden windless hollows thronged with daisy faces;
Now the corn salutes the Morn that sought Persepolis!
Searcher of the ocean and the islands and the straits,
The mountains and the rivers and the deserts and the dunes,
Saw you any little spirit foundling of the Fates,
Groping at the world-wall for the narrow gates
Guarded by the nine big moons?
The mountains and the rivers and the deserts and the dunes,
Saw you any little spirit foundling of the Fates,
Groping at the world-wall for the narrow gates
Guarded by the nine big moons?
17
Numberless and endlessly the living spirit tide rolls,
Like a serried ocean on a pleasant island hurled!
Sun-lured, rain-wooed, color-haunted wild souls,
Trooping with the love-thralled, mother-seeking child souls,
Throng upon the good green world!
Like a serried ocean on a pleasant island hurled!
Sun-lured, rain-wooed, color-haunted wild souls,
Trooping with the love-thralled, mother-seeking child souls,
Throng upon the good green world!
Surely you have seen it in your wide sky-going—
An eager little comrade of the spirits of the wheat;
All the hymning forests and the melody of growing,
All the ocean thunderings and all the rivers flowing,
Silenced by the music of its feet!
An eager little comrade of the spirits of the wheat;
All the hymning forests and the melody of growing,
All the ocean thunderings and all the rivers flowing,
Silenced by the music of its feet!
| The Stranger at the Gate | |