From the Night of Forebeing: An Ode After Easter
In the chaos of preordination, and night of our forebeings.—
SIR THOMAS BROWNE.
Et lux in tenebris erat, et tenebræ eam non comprehenderunt.—
ST. JOHN.
CAST wide the folding doorways of the East,For now is light increased!And the wind-besomed chambers of the air,See they be garnished fair;And look the ways exhale some precious odours,And set ye all about wild-breathing spice,Most fit for Paradise.Now is no time for sober gravity,Season enough has Nature to be wise;But now discinct, with raiment glittering free,Shake she the ringing rafters of the skiesWith festal footing and bold joyance sweet,And let the earth be drunken and carouse!For lo, into her houseSpring is come home with her world-wandering feet,And all things are made young with young desires;And all for her is light increasedIn yellow stars and yellow daffodils,And East to West, and West to East,Fling answering welcome-fires,By dawn and day-fall, on the jocund hills.And ye, winged minstrels of her fair meinie,Being newly coated in glad livery,Upon her steps attend,And round her treading dance and without endReel your shrill lutany.What popular breath her coming does out-tellThe garrulous leaves among!What little noises stir and passFrom blade to blade along the voluble grass!O Nature, never-doneUngaped-at Pentecostal miracle,We hear thee, each man in his proper tongue!Break, elemental children, break ye looseFrom the strict frosty ruleOf grey-beard Winter’s school.Vault, O young winds, vault in your tricksome coursesUpon the snowy steeds that reinless useIn coerule pampas of the heaven to run;Foaled of the white sea-horses,Washed in the lambent waters of the sun.Let even the slug-abed snail upon the thornPut forth a conscious horn!Mine elemental co-mates, joy each one;And ah, my foster-brethren, seem not sad—No, seem not sad,That my strange heart and I should be so little glad.Suffer me at your leafy feastTo sit apart, a somewhat alien guest,And watch your mirth,Unsharing in the liberal laugh of earth;Yet with a sympathy,Begot of wholly sad and half-sweet memory—The little sweetness making grief complete;Faint wind of wings from hours that distant beat,When I, I too,Was once, O wild companions, as are you,Ran with such wilful feet.Wraith of a recent day and dead,Risen wanly overhead,Frail, strengthless as a noon-belated moon,Or as the glazing eyes of watery heaven,When the sick night sinks into deathly swoon.
A higher and a solemn voiceI heard through your gay-hearted noise;A solemn meaning and a stiller voiceSounds to me from far days when I too shall rejoice,Nor more be with your jollity at strife.O prophecyOf things that are, and are not, and shall be!The great-vanned Angel MarchHath trumpetedHis clangorous ‘Sleep no more’ to all the dead—Beat his strong vans o’er earth, and air, and sea.And they have heard;Hark to the Jubilate of the birdFor them that found the dying way to life!And they have heard,And quicken to the great precursive word;Green spray showers lightly down the cascade of the larch;The graves are riven,And the Sun comes with power amid the clouds of heaven!Before his wayWent forth the trumpet of the March;Before his way, before his wayDances the pennon of the May!O earth, unchilded, widowed Earth, so longLifting in patient pine and ivy-treeMournful belief and steadfast prophecy,Behold how all things are made true!Behold your bridegroom cometh in to you,Exceeding glad and strong.Raise up your eyes, O raise your eyes abroad!No more shall you sit sole and vidual,Searching, in servile pall,Upon the hieratic night the star-sealed sense of all:Rejoice, O barren, and look forth abroad!Your children gathered back to your embraceSee with a mother’s face.Look up, O mortals, and the portent heed;In very deed,Washed with new fire to their irradiant birth,Reintegrated are the heavens and earth!From sky to sod,The world’s unfolded blossom smells of God.
O imageryOf that which was the first, and is the last!For as the dark, profound nativity,God saw the end should be,When the world’s infant horoscope He cast.Unshackled from the bright Phoebean awe,In leaf, flower, mould, and tree,Resolved into dividual liberty,Most strengthless, unparticipant, inane,Or suffered the ill peace of lethargy,Lo, the Earth eased of rule:Unsummered, granted to her own worst smartThe dear wish of the fool—Disintegration, merely which man’s heartFor freedom understands,Amid the frog-like errors from the dampAnd quaking swampOf the low popular levels spawned in all the lands.But thou, O Earth, dost much disdainThe bondage of thy waste and futile reign,And sweetly to the great compulsion drawOf God’s alone true-manumitting law,And Freedom, only which the wise intend,To work thine innate end.Over thy vacant counterfeit of deathBroods with soft urgent breathLove, that is child of Beauty and of Awe:To intercleavage of sharp warring pain,As of contending chaos come again,Thou wak’st, O Earth,And work’st from change to change and birth to birthCreation old as hope, and new as sight;For meed of toil not vain,Hearing once more the primal fiat toll:—‘Let there be light!’And there is light!Light flagrant, manifest;Light to the zenith, light from pole to pole;Light from the East that waxeth to the West,And with its puissant goings-forthEncroaches on the South and on the North;And with its great approaches does prevailUpon the sullen fastness of the height,And summoning its levied powerCrescent and confident through the crescent hour,Goes down with laughters on the subject vale.Light flagrant, manifest;Light to the sentient closeness of the breast,Light to the secret chambers of the brain!And thou up-floatest, warm, and newly-bathed,Earth, through delicious air,And with thine own apparent beauties swathed,Wringing the waters from thine arborous hair;That all men’s hearts, which do behold and see,Grow weak with their exceeding much desire,And turn to thee on fire,Enamoured with their utter wish of thee,Anadyomene!What vine-outquickening life all creatures sup,Feel, for the air within its sapphire cupHow it does leap, and twinkle headily!Feel, for Earth’s bosom pants, and heaves her scarfing sea;And round and round in bacchanal rout reel the swift spheresintemperably!
My little-worlded self! the shadows passIn this thy sister-world, as in a glass,Of all processions that revolve in thee:Not only of cyclic ManThou here discern’st the plan,Not only of cyclic Man, but of the cyclic Me.Not solely of Mortality’s great yearsThe reflex just appears,But thine own bosom’s year, still circling roundIn ample and in ampler gyreToward the far completion, wherewith crowned,Love unconsumed shall chant in his own furnace-fire.How many trampled and deciduous joysEnrich thy soul for joys deciduous still,Before the distance shall fulfilCyclic unrest with solemn equipoise!Happiness is the shadow of things past,Which fools still take for that which is to be!And not all foolishly:For all the past, read true, is prophecy,And all the firsts are hauntings of some Last,And all the springs are flash-lights of one Spring.Then leaf, and flower, and falless fruitShall hang together on the unyellowing bough;And silence shall be Music muteFor her surchargèd heart. Hush thou!These things are far too sure that thou should’st dreamThereof, lest they appear as things that seem.
Shade within shade! for deeper in the glassNow other imaged meanings pass;And as the man, the poet there is read.Winter with me, alack!Winter on every hand I find:Soul, brain, and pulses dead;The mind no further by the warm sense fed,The soul weak-stirring in the arid mind,More tearless-weak to flash itself abroadThan the earth’s life beneath the frost-scorched sod.My lips have drought, and crack,By laving music long unvisited.Beneath the austere and macerating rimeDraws back constricted in its icy urnsThe genial flame of Earth, and thereWith torment and with tension does prepareThe lush disclosures of the vernal time.All joys draw inward to their icy urns,Tormented by constraining rime,And thereWith undelight and throe prepareThe bounteous efflux of the vernal time.Nor less beneath compulsive LawRebukèd drawThe numbèd musics back upon my heart;Whose yet-triumphant course I knowAnd prevalent pulses forth shall start,Like cataracts that with thunderous hoof charge the disbanding snow.All power is boundIn quickening refusal so;And silence is the lair of sound;In act its impulse to deliver,With fluctuance and quiverThe endeavouring thew grows rigid;StrongFrom its retracted coil strikes the resilient song.
Giver of spring,And song, and every young new thing!Thou only seest in me, so stripped and bare,The lyric secret waiting to be born,The patient term allowedBefore it stretch and flutteringly unfoldIts rumpled webs of amethyst-freaked, diaphanous gold.And what hard task abstracts me from delight,Filling with hopeless hope and dear despairThe still-born day and parchèd fields of night,That my old way of song, no longer fair,For lack of serene care,Is grown a stony and a weed-choked plot,Thou only know’st aright,Thou only know’st, for I know not.How many songs must die that this may live!And shall this most rash hope and fugitive,Fulfilled with beauty and with mightIn days whose feet are rumorous on the air,Make me forget to grieveFor songs which might have been, nor ever were?Stern the denial, the travail slow,The struggling wall will scantly grow:And though with that dread rite of sacrificeOrdained for during edifice,How long, how long ago!Into that wall which will not thriveI build myself alive,Ah, who shall tell me will the wall uprise?Thou wilt not tell me, who dost only know!Yet still in mind I keep,He which observes the wind shall hardly sow,He which regards the clouds shall hardly reap.Thine ancient way! I give,Nor wit if I receive;Risk all, who all would gain: and blindly. Be it so.
‘And blindly,’ said I?—No!That saying I unsay: the wingsHear I not in prævenient winnowingsOf coming songs, that lift my hair and stir it?What winds with music wet do the sweet storm foreshow!Utter stagnationIs the solstitial slumber of the spirit,The blear and blank negation of all life:But these sharp questionings mean strife, and strifeIs the negation of negation.The thing from which I turn my troubled lookFearing the gods’ rebuke;That perturbation putting glory on,As is the golden vortex in the WestOver the foundered sun;That—but low breathe it, lest the NemesisUnchild me, vaunting this—Is bliss, the hid, hugged, swaddled bliss!O youngling Joy carest!That on my now first-mothered breastPliest the strange wonder of thine infant lip,What this aghast surprise of keenest panging,Wherefrom I blench, and cry thy soft mouth rest?Ah hold, withhold, and let the sweet mouth slip!So, with such pain, recoils the woolly dam,Unused, affrighted, from her yeanling lamb:I, one with her in cruel fellowship,Marvel what unmaternal thing I am.
Nature, enough! within thy glassToo many and too stern the shadows pass.In this delighted season, flamingFor thy resurrection-feast,Ah, more I think the long ensepulture cold,Than stony winter rolledFrom the unsealed mouth of the holy East;The snowdrop’s saintly stoles less heedThan the snow-cloistered penance of the seed.’Tis the weak flesh reclaimingAgainst the ordinanceWhich yet for just the accepting spirit scans.Earth waits, and patient heaven,Self-bonded God doth waitThrice-promulgated bansOf his fair nuptial-date.And power is man’s,With that great word of ‘wait,’To still the sea of tears,And shake the iron heart of Fate.In that one word is strongAn else, alas, much-mortal song;With sight to pass the frontier of all spheres,And voice which does my sight such wrong.
Not without fortitude I waitThe dark majestical ensuitOf destiny, nor peevish rateCalm-knowledged Fate.I, that no part have in the time’s bragged way,And its loud bruitI, in this house so rifted, marred,So ill to live in, hard to leave;I, so star-weary, over-warred,That have no joy in this your day—Rather foul fume englutting, that of dayConfounds all ray—But only stand aside and grieve;I yet have sight beyond the smoke,And kiss the gods’ feet, though they wreakUpon me stroke and again stroke;And this my seeing is not weak.The Woman I behold, whose vision seekAll eyes and know not; t’ward whom climbThe steps o’ the world, and beats all wing of rhyme,And knows not; ’twixt the sun and moonHer inexpressible front enstarredTempers the wrangling spheres to tune;Their divergent harmoniesConcluded in the concord of her eyes,And vestal dances of her glad regard.I see, which fretteth with surmiseMuch heads grown unsagacious-grey,The slow aim of wise-hearted Time,Which folded cycles within cycles cloak:We pass, we pass, we pass; this does not pass away,But holds the furrowing earth still harnessed to its yoke.The stars still write their golden purposesOn heaven’s high palimpsest, and no man sees,Nor any therein Daniel; I do hearFrom the revolving yearA voice which cries:‘All dies;Lo, how all dies! O seer,And all things too arise:All dies, and all is born;But each resurgent morn, behold, more near the Perfect Morn.’
Firm is the man, and set beyond the castOf Fortune’s game, and the iniquitous hour,Whose falcon soul sits fast,And not intends her high sagacious tourOr ere the quarry sighted; who looks pastTo slow much sweet from little instant sour,And in the first does always see the last.