LITMIR.BIZ

        Welcome, friend! Bring in your bricks.

      Mortar there? No need to mix?

      That is well. And picks and hammers?

      Verily these are no shammers!—

      There, my friend, build up that niche,

      That one with the painting rich!

        Yes, you're right; it is a show

      Picture seldom can bestow;

      City palaces and towers,

      Terraced gardens, twilight bowers,

      Vistas deep through swaying masts,

      Pennons flaunting in the blasts:

      Build; my room it does not fit;

      Brick-glaze is the thing for it!

        Yes, a window you may call it;

      Not the less up you must wall it:

      In that niche the dead world lies;

      Bury death, and free mine eyes.

        There were youths who held by me,

      Said I taught, yet left them free:

      Will they do as I said then?

      God forbid! As ye are men,

      Find the secret—follow and find!

      All forget that lies behind;

      Me, the schools, yourselves, forsake;

      In your souls a silence make;

      Hearken till a whisper come,

      Listen, follow, and be dumb.

        There! 'tis over; I am dead!

      Of my life the broken thread

      Here I cast out of my hand!—

      O my soul, the merry land!

      On my heart the sinking vault

      Of my ruining past makes halt;

      Ages I could sit and moan

      For the shining world that's gone!

        Haste and pierce the other wall;

      Break an opening to the All!

      Where? No matter; done is best.

      Kind of window? Let that rest:

      Who at morning ever lies

      Pondering how to ope his eyes!

        I bethink me: we must fall

      On the thinnest of the wall!

      There it must be, in that niche!—

      No, the deepest—that in which

      Stands the Crucifix.

                           You start?—

      Ah, your half-believing heart

      Shrinks from that as sacrilege,

      Or, at least, upon its edge!

      Worse than sacrilege, I say,

      Is it to withhold the day

      From the brother whom thou knowest

      For the God thou never sawest!

        Reverently, O marble cold,

      Thee in living arms I fold!

      Thou who art thyself the way

      From the darkness to the day,

      Window, thou, to every land,

      Wouldst not one dread moment stand

      Shutting out the air and sky

      And the dayspring from on high!

      Brother with the rugged crown,

      Gently thus I lift thee down!

        Give me pick and hammer; you

      Stand aside; the deed I'll do.

      Yes, in truth, I have small skill,

      But the best thing is the will.

        Stroke on stroke! The frescoed plaster

      Clashes downward, fast and faster.

      Hark, I hear an outer stone

      Down the rough rock rumbling thrown!

      There's a cranny! there's a crack!

      The great sun is at its back!

      Lo, a mass is outward flung!

      In the universe hath sprung!

        See the gold upon the blue!

      See the sun come blinding through!

      See the far-off mountain shine

      In the dazzling light divine!

      Prisoned world, thy captive's gone!

      Welcome wind, and sky, and sun!