LITMIR.BIZ

      _Another tattered rhymster in the ring,

        With but the old plea to the sneering schools,

      That on him too, some secret night in spring

        Came the old frenzy of a hundred fools

      To make some thing: the old want dark and deep,

        The thirst of men, the hunger of the stars,

      Since first it tinged even the Eternal's sleep,

        With monstrous dreams of trees and towns and mars.

      When all He made for the first time He saw,

        Scattering stars as misers shake their pelf.

      Then in the last strange wrath broke His own law,

        And made a graven image of Himself._

      If trees were tall and grasses short,

        As in some crazy tale,

      If here and there a sea were blue

        Beyond the breaking pale,

      If a fixed fire hung in the air

        To warm me one day through,

      If deep green hair grew on great hills,

        I know what I should do.

      In dark I lie: dreaming that there

        Are great eyes cold or kind,

      And twisted streets and silent doors,

        And living men behind.

      Let storm-clouds come: better an hour,

        And leave to weep and fight,

      Than all the ages I have ruled

        The empires of the night.

      I think that if they gave me leave

        Within that world to stand,

      I would be good through all the day

        I spent in fairyland.

      They should not hear a word from me

        Of selfishness or scorn,

      If only I could find the door,

        If only I were born.

      My eyes are full of lonely mirth:

        Reeling with want and worn with scars,

      For pride of every stone on earth,

        I shake my spear at all the stars.

      A live bat beats my crest above,

        Lean foxes nose where I have trod,

      And on my naked face the love

        Which is the loneliness of God.

      Outlawed: since that great day gone by —

        When before prince and pope and queen

      I stood and spoke a blasphemy —

        'Behold the summer leaves are green.'

      They cursed me: what was that to me

        Who in that summer darkness furled,

      With but an owl and snail to see,

        Had blessed and conquered all the world?

      They bound me to the scourging-stake,

        They laid their whips of thorn on me;

      I wept to see the green rods break,

        Though blood be beautiful to see.

      Beneath the gallows' foot abhorred

        The crowds cry 'Crucify!' and 'Kill!'

      Higher the priests sing, 'Praise the Lord,

        The warlock dies'; and higher still

      Shall heaven and earth hear one cry sent

        Even from the hideous gibbet height,

      'Praise to the Lord Omnipotent,

        The vultures have a feast to-night.'

      Chattering finch and water-fly

      Are not merrier than I;

      Here among the flowers I lie

      Laughing everlastingly.

      No: I may not tell the best;

      Surely, friends, I might have guessed

      Death was but the good King's jest,

        It was hid so carefully.

      My Lady clad herself in grey,

        That caught and clung about her throat;

      Then all the long grey winter day

        On me a living splendour smote;

      And why grey palmers holy are,

        And why grey minsters great in story,

      And grey skies ring the morning star,

        And grey hairs are a crown of glory.

      My Lady clad herself in green,

        Like meadows where the wind-waves pass;

      Then round my spirit spread, I ween,

        A splendour of forgotten grass.

      Then all that dropped of stem or sod,

        Hoarded as emeralds might be,

      I bowed to every bush, and trod

        Amid the live grass fearfully.

      My Lady clad herself in blue,

        Then on me, like the seer long gone,

      The likeness of a sapphire grew,

        The throne of him that sat thereon.

      Then knew I why the Fashioner

        Splashed reckless blue on sky and sea;

      And ere 'twas good enough for her,

        He tried it on Eternity.

      Beneath the gnarled old Knowledge-tree

        Sat, like an owl, the evil sage:

      'The World's a bubble,' solemnly

        He read, and turned a second page.

      'A bubble, then, old crow,' I cried,

        'God keep you in your weary wit!

      'A bubble – have you ever spied

        'The colours I have seen on it?'

      To teach the grey earth like a child,

        To bid the heavens repent,

      I only ask from Fate the gift

        Of one man well content.

      Him will I find: though when in vain

        I search the feast

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