LITMIR.BIZ

        Sinks the sadness into rest,

      Ripple like on water's breast:

      Mother's bosom rests the daughter—

      Grief the ripple, love the water;

      And thy brain like wind-harp lies

      Breathed upon from distant skies,

      Till, soft-gathering, visions new

      Grow like vapours in the blue:

      White forms, flushing hyacinthine,

      Move in motions labyrinthine;

      With an airy wishful gait

      On the counter-motion wait;

      Sweet restraint and action free

      Show the law of liberty;

      Master of the revel still

      The obedient, perfect will;

      Hating smallest thing awry,

      Breathing, breeding harmony;

      While the god-like graceful feet,

      For such mazy marvelling meet,

      Press from air a shining sound,

      Rippling after, lingering round:

      Hair afloat and arms aloft

      Fill the chord of movement soft.

        Gone the measure polyhedral!

      Towers aloft a fair cathedral!

      Every arch—like praying arms

      Upward flung in love's alarms,

      Knit by clasped hands o'erhead—

      Heaves to heaven a weight of dread;

      In thee, like an angel-crowd,

      Grows the music, praying loud,

      Swells thy spirit with devotion

      As a strong wind swells the ocean,

      Sweeps the visioned pile away,

      Leaves thy heart alone to pray.

        As the prayer grows dim and dies

      Like a sunset from the skies,

      Glides another change of mood

      O'er thy inner solitude:

      Girt with Music's magic zone,

      Lo, thyself magician grown!

      Open-eyed thou walk'st through earth

      Brooding on the aeonian birth

      Of a thousand wonder-things

      In divine dusk of their springs:

      Half thou seest whence they flow,

      Half thou seest whither go—

      Nature's consciousness, whereby

      On herself she turns her eye,

      Hoping for all men and thee

      Perfected, pure harmony.

        But when, sinking slow, the sun

      Leaves the glowing curtain dun,

      I, of prophet-insight reft,

      Shall be dull and dreamless left;

      I must hasten proof on proof,

      Weaving in the warp my woof!

        What are those upon the wall,

      Ranged in rows symmetrical?

      Through the wall of things external

      Posterns they to the supernal;

      Through Earth's battlemented height

      Loopholes to the Infinite;

      Through locked gates of place and time,

      Wickets to the eternal prime

      Lying round the noisy day

      Full of silences alway.

        That, my friend? Now, it is curious

      You should hit upon the spurious!

      'Tis a door to nowhere, that;

      Never soul went in thereat;

      Lies behind, a limy wall

      Hung with cobwebs, that is all.

        Do not open that one yet,

      Wait until the sun is set.

      If you careless lift its latch

      Glimpse of nothing will you catch;

      Mere negation, blank of hue,

      Out of it will stare at you;

      Wait, I say, the coming night,

      Fittest time for second sight,

      Then the wide eyes of the mind

      See far down the Spirit's wind.

      You may have to strain and pull,

      Force and lift with cunning tool,

      Ere the rugged, ill-joined door

      Yield the sight it stands before:

      When at last, with grating sweep,

      Wide it swings—behold, the deep!

        Thou art standing on the verge

      Where material things emerge;

      Hoary silence, lightning fleet,

      Shooteth hellward at thy feet!

      Fear not thou whose life is truth,

      Gazing will renew thy youth;

      But where sin of soul or flesh

      Held a man in spider-mesh,

      It would drag him through that door,

      Give

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