Hark, where the deep feels round its thousand shores To find remembered respite, and far drawn Through weed-strewn shelves and crannies of the coast The myriad silence yearns to myriad speech. O sea that yearns a day, shall thy tongues be So eloquent, and heart, shall all thy tongues Be dumb to speak thy longing? Say I hold Life as a broken jewel in my hand, And fain would buy a little love with it For comfort, say I fain would make it shine Once in remembering eyes ere it be dust,-- Were life not worthy spent? Then what of this, When all my spirit hungers to repay The beauty that has drenched my soul with peace? Once at a simple turning of the way I met God walking; and although the dawn Was large behind Him, and the morning stars Circled and sang about his face as birds About the fieldward morning cottager, My coward heart said faintly, "Let us haste! Day grows and it is far to market-town." Once where I lay in darkness after fight, Sore smitten, thrilled a little thread of song Searching and searching at my muffled sense Until it shook sweet pangs through all my blood, And I beheld one globed in ghostly fire Singing, star-strong, her golden canticle; And her mouth sang, "The hosts of Hate roll past, A dance of dust motes in the sliding sun; Love's battle comes on the wide wings of storm, From east to west one legion! Wilt thou strive?" Then, since the splendor of her sword-bright gaze Was heavy on me with yearning and with scorn My sick heart muttered, "Yea, the little strife, Yet see, the grievous wounds! I fain would sleep." O heart, shalt thou not once be strong to go Where all sweet throats are calling, once be brave To slake with deed thy dumbness? Let us go The path her singing face looms low to point, Pendulous, blanched with longing, shedding flame Of silver on the brown grope of the flood; For all my spirit's soilure is put by And all my body's soilure, lacking now But the last lustral sacrament of death To make me clean for those near-searching eyes That question yonder whether all be well, And pause a little ere they dare rejoice.
Question and be thou answered, passionate face! For I am worthy, worthy now at last After so long unworth; strong now at last To give myself to beauty and be saved; Now, being man, to give myself to thee, As once the tumult of my boyish heart Companioned thee with rapture through the world, Forth from a land whereof no poet's lip Made mention how the leas were lily-sprent, Into a land God's eyes had looked not on To love the tender bloom upon the hills. To-morrow, when the fishers come at dawn Upon that shell of me the sea has tossed To land, as fit for earth to use again, Men, meeting at the shops and corner streets, Will speak a word of pity, glossing o'er With altered accent, dubious sweep of hand, Their virile, just contempt for one who failed. But they can never cast my earnings up, Who know so well my losses. Even you Who in the mild light of the spirit walk And hold yourselves acquainted with the truth, Be not too swift to judge and cast me out! You shall find other, nobler ways than mine To work your soul's redemption,--glorious noons Of battle 'neath the heaven-suspended sign, And nightly refuge 'neath God's ægis-rim; Increase of wisdom, and acquaintance held With the heart's austerities; still governance, And ripening of the blood in the weekday sun To make the full-orbed consecrated fruit At life's end for the Sabbath supper meet. I shall not sit beside you at that feast, For ere a seedling of my golden tree Pushed off its petals to get room to grow, I stripped the boughs to make an April gaud And wreathe a spendthrift garland for my hair. But mine is not the failure God deplores; For I of old am beauty's votarist, Long recreant, often foiled and led astray, But resolute at last to seek her there Where most she does abide, and crave with tears That she assoil me of my blemishment. Low looms her singing face to point the way, Pendulous, blanched with longing, shedding flame Of silver on the brown grope of the flood. The stars are for me; the horizon wakes Its pilgrim chanting; and the little sand Grows musical of hope beneath my feet. The waves that leap to meet my swimming breast Gossip sweet secrets of the light-drenched way, And when the deep throbs of the rising surge Pulse upward with me, and a rain of wings Blurs round the moon's pale place, she stoops to reach Still welcome of bright hands across the wave, And sings low, low, globed all in ghostly fire, Lost verses from my youth's gold canticle.