z3998:roman">XVI
With what I thus beheld, glorified then,
“God, let me love my fill and pass!” I sighed,
And dead, for love had almost died again.
“O fathers, brothers, I am yours!” I cried;
“O mothers, sisters. I am nothing now
Save as I am yours, and in you sanctified!
O men, O women, of the peaceful brow,
And infinite abysses in the eyes
Whence God’s ineffable gazes on me, how
Care ye for me, impassioned and unwise?
Oh ever draw my heart out after you!
Ever, O grandeur, thus before me rise
And I need nothing, not even for love will sue!
I am no more, and love is all in all!
Henceforth there is, there can be nothing new—
All things are always new!” Then, like the fall
Of a steep avalanche, my joy fell steep:
Up in my spirit rose as it were the call
Of an old sorrow from an ancient deep;
For, with my eyes fixed on the eyes of him
Whom I had loved before I learned to creep—
God’s vicar in his twilight nursery dim
To gather us to the higher father’s knee—
I saw a something fill their azure rim
That caught him worlds and years away from me;
And like a javelin once more through me passed
The pang that pierced me walking on the sea:
“O saints,” I cried, “must loss be still the last?”
When I said this, the cloud of witnesses
Turned their heads sideways, and the cloud grew dim
I saw their faces half, but now their bliss
Gleamed low, like the old moon in the new moon’s rim.
Then as I gazed, a better kind of light
On every outline ’gan to glimmer and swim,
Faint as the young moon threadlike on the night,
Just born of sunbeams trembling on her edge:
’Twas a great cluster of profiles in sharp white.
Had some far dawn begun to drive a wedge
Into the night, and cleave the clinging dark?
I saw no moon or star, token or pledge
Of light, save that manifold silvery mark,
The shining title of each spirit-book.
Whence came that light? Sudden, as if a spark
Of vital touch had found some hidden nook
Where germs of potent harmonies lay prest,
And their outbursting life old Aether shook,
Rose, as in prayer to lingering promised guest,
From that great cone of faces such a song,
Instinct with hope’s harmonical unrest,
That with sore weeping, and the cry “How long?”
I bore my part because I could not sing.
And as they sang, the light more clear and strong
Bordered their faces, till the glory-sting
I could almost no more encounter and bear;
Light from their eyes, like water from a spring,
Flowed; on their foreheads reigned their flashing hair;
I saw the light from eyes I could not see.
“He comes! he comes!” they sang, “comes to our prayer!”
“Oh my poor heart, if only it were He!”
I cried. Thereat the faces moved! those eyes
Were turning on me! In rushed ecstasy,
And woke me to the light of lower skies.
“What matter,” said I, “whether clank of chain
Or over-bliss wakes up to bitterness!”
Stung with its loss, I called the vision vain.
Yet feeling life grown larger, suffering less,
Sleep’s ashes from my eyelids I did brush.
The room was veiled, that morning should not press
Upon the slumber which had stayed the rush
Of ebbing life; I looked into the gloom:
Upon her brow the dawn’s first grayest flush,
And on her cheek pale hope’s reviving bloom,
Sat, patient watcher, darkling and alone,
She who had lifted me from many a tomb!
One then was left me of Love’s radiant cone!
Its light on her dear face, though faint and wan,
Was shining yet—a dawn upon it thrown
From the far coming of the Son of Man!
In every forehead now I see a sky
Catching the dawn; I hear the wintriest breeze
About me blow the news the Lord is nigh.
Long is the night, dark are the polar seas,
Yet slanting suns ascend the northern hill.
Round Spring’s own steps the oozy waters freeze
But hold them not. Dreamers are sleeping still,
But labourers, light-stung, from their slumber start:
Faith sees the ripening ears with harvest fill
When but green blades the clinging earth-clods part.
Lord, I have spoken a poor parable,
In which I would have said thy name alone
Is the one secret lying in Truth’s well,
Thy voice the hidden charm in every tone,
Thy face the heart of every flower on earth,
Its vision the one hope; for every moan
Thy love the cure! O sharer of the birth
Of little children seated on thy knee!
O human God! I laugh with sacred mirth
To think how all the laden shall go free;
For, though the vision tarry, in healing ruth
One morn the eyes that shone in Galilee
Will dawn upon them, full of grace and truth,
And thy own love—the vivifying core
Of every love in heart of age or youth,
Of every hope that sank ’neath burden sore!
The Sangreal
A Part of the Story Omitted in the Old Romances
Through the wood the sunny day
Glimmered sweetly glad;
Through the wood his weary way
Rode sir Galahad.
All about stood open porch,
Long-drawn cloister dim;
’Twas a wavering wandering church
Every side of him.
On through columns arching high,
Foliage-vaulted, he
Rode in thirst that made him sigh,
Longing miserably.
Came the moon, and through the trees
Glimmered faintly sad;
Withered, worn, and ill at ease
Down lay Galahad;
Closed his eyes and took no heed
What might come or pass;
Heard his hunger-busy steed
Cropping dewy grass.
Cool and juicy was the blade,
Good to him as wine:
For his labour he was paid,
Galahad must pine!
Late had he at Arthur’s board,
Arthur strong and wise,
Pledged the cup with friendly lord,
Looked in ladies’ eyes;
Now, alas! he wandered wide,
Resting never more,
Over lake and mountain-side,
Over sea and shore!
Swift in vision rose and fled
All he might have had;
Weary tossed his restless head,
And his heart
