 | The Stranger at the Gate |  |
VIII
VISION
SOON shall you come as the dawn from the dumb abysm of night,
Traveler birthward, Hastener earthward out of the gloom!
Soon shall you rest on a soft white breast from the measureless mid-world flight;
Waken in fear at the miracle, light, in the pain-hushed room.
Traveler birthward, Hastener earthward out of the gloom!
Soon shall you rest on a soft white breast from the measureless mid-world flight;
Waken in fear at the miracle, light, in the pain-hushed room.
Lovingly fondled, fearfully guarded by hands that are tender,
Frail shall you seem as a dream that must fail in the swirl of the morrow:
Oh, but the vast, immemorial past of ineffable splendor,
Forfeited soon in the pangful surrender to Sense and to Sorrow!
Frail shall you seem as a dream that must fail in the swirl of the morrow:
Oh, but the vast, immemorial past of ineffable splendor,
Forfeited soon in the pangful surrender to Sense and to Sorrow!
Who shall unravel your tangle of travel, uncurtain your history?
Have you not run with the sun-gladdened feet of a thaw?
Lurked as a thrill in the will of the primal sea-mystery,
The drift of the cloud and the lift of the moon for a law?
Have you not run with the sun-gladdened feet of a thaw?
21
The drift of the cloud and the lift of the moon for a law?
Lost is the tale of the gulfs you have crossed and the veils you have lifted:
In many a tongue have been wrung from you outcries of pain:
You have leaped with the lightning from thunder-heads, hurricane-rifted,
And breathed in the whispering rain!
In many a tongue have been wrung from you outcries of pain:
You have leaped with the lightning from thunder-heads, hurricane-rifted,
And breathed in the whispering rain!
Latent in juices the April sun looses from capture,
Have you not blown in the lily and grown in the weed?
Burned with the flame of the vernal erotical rapture,
And yearned with the passion for seed?
Have you not blown in the lily and grown in the weed?
Burned with the flame of the vernal erotical rapture,
And yearned with the passion for seed?
Poured on the deeps from the steeps of the sky as a chalice,
Flung through the loom that is shuttled by tempests at play,
Myriad the forms you have taken for hovel or palace—
Broken and cast them away!
Flung through the loom that is shuttled by tempests at play,
Myriad the forms you have taken for hovel or palace—
Broken and cast them away!
You who shall cling to a love that is fearful and pities,
Titans of flame were your comrades to blight and consume!
Have you not roared over song-hallowed, sword-stricken cities,
And fled in the smoke of their doom?
For, ancient and new, you are flame, you are dust, you are spirit and dew,
Swirled into flesh, and the winds of the world are your breath!
The song of the thrush in the hush of the dawn is not younger than you—
And yet you are older than Death!
Titans of flame were your comrades to blight and consume!
Have you not roared over song-hallowed, sword-stricken cities,
And fled in the smoke of their doom?
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Swirled into flesh, and the winds of the world are your breath!
The song of the thrush in the hush of the dawn is not younger than you—
And yet you are older than Death!
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| The Stranger at the Gate | |