To the Dead Cardinal of Westminster
I WILL not perturbateThy Paradisal stateWith praiseOf thy dead days;
To the new-heavened say,—“Spirit, thou wert fine clay:”This do,Thy praise who knew.
Therefore my spirit clingsHeaven’s porter by the wings,And holdsIts gated golds
Apart, with thee to pressA private business;—Whence,Deign me audience.
Anchorite, who didst dwellWith all the world for cellMy soulRound me doth roll
A sequestration bare.Too far alike we were,Too farDissimilar.
For its burning fruitage IDo climb the tree o’ the sky;Do prizeSome human eyes.
You smelt the Heaven-blossoms,And all the sweet embosomsThe dearUranian year.
Those Eyes my weak gaze shuns,Which to the suns are Suns.DidNot affray your lid.
The carpet was let down(With golden mouldings strown)For youOf the angels’ blue.
But I, ex-Paradised,The shoulder of your ChristFind highTo lean thereby.
So flaps my helpless sail,Bellying with neither gale,Of HeavenNor Orcus even.
Life is a coquetryOf Death, which wearies me,Too sureOf the amour;
A tiring-room where IDeath’s divers garments try,Till fitSome fashion sit.
It seemeth me too muchI do rehearse for suchA meanAnd single scene.
The sandy glass hence bear—Antique remembrancer;My veinsDo spare its pains.
With secret sympathyMy thoughts repeat in meInfirmThe turn o’ the worm
Beneath my appointed sod:The grave is in my blood;I shakeTo winds that take
Its grasses by the top;The rains thereon that dropPerturbWith drip acerb
My subtly answering soul;The feet across its knollDo jarMe from afar.
As sap foretastes the spring;As Earth ere blossomingThrillsWith far daffodils,
And feels her breast turn sweetWith the unconceivèd wheat;So dothMy flesh foreloathe
The abhorrèd spring of Dis,With seething presciencesAffirmThe preparate worm.
I have no thought that I,When at the last I die,Shall reachTo gain your speech.
But you, should that be so,May very well, I know,May wellTo me in hell
With recognising eyesLook from your Paradise—“God blessThy hopelessness!”
Call, holy soul, O callThe hosts angelical,And say,—“See, far away
“Lies one I saw on earth;One stricken from his birthWith curseOf destinate verse.
“What place doth He ye serveFor such sad spirit reserve,—Given,In dark lieu of Heaven,
“The impitiable Dæmon,Beauty, to adore and dream on,To bePerpetually
“Hers, but she never his?He reapeth miseries,ForeknowsHis wages woes;
“He lives detachèd days;He serveth not for praise;For goldHe is not sold;
“Deaf is he to world’s tongue;He scorneth for his songThe loudShouts of the crowd;
“He asketh not world’s eyes;Not to world’s ears he cries;Saith,—‘TheseShut, if ye please;’
“He measureth world’s pleasure,World’s ease as Saints might measure;For hireJust love entire
“He asks, not grudging pain;And knows his asking vain,And cries—‘Love! Love!’ and dies;
“In guerdon of long duty,Unowned by Love or Beauty;And goes—Tell, tell, who knows!
“Aliens from Heaven’s worth,Fine beasts who nose i’ the earth,Do thereReward prepare.
“But are his great desiresFood but for nether fires?Ah me,A mystery!
“Can it be his alone,To find when all is known,That whatHe solely sought
“Is lost, and thereto lostAll that its seeking cost?That heMust finally,
“Through sacrificial tears,And anchoretic years,TrystWith the sensualist?”
So ask; and if they tellThe secret terrible,Good friend,I pray thee send
Some high gold embassageTo teach my unripe age.Tell!Lest my feet walk hell.