THE PASSION
Those whose Love, unborn to sight,
Never did itself disclose
Save in water's cry; a rose;
Meteor furrowing the night;
Mote of any turning ray;
Pipe of bird mid sunset's flush;
Rain stilled, leaves flame-wet, and hush
Of a rainbow's fire and spray;
Any straight road leads afar
‘ Cross a hill-brow — What's beyond?
Seven hung notes of music fond;
Seven dark poplars, one white star;
Cloud lifting a tower aloft;
Light and play and shadowy grace
Of the soul behind a face
Flitting by on motion soft;
Lonely figure on a height;
Those whose love but shines a hint
Fainter than the far sea's glint
To the inland gazer's sight —
These alone, and but in part,
Guess of what my songs are spun,
And Who holds communion
Subtly with my troubled heart.
But the substance of my grief
Scarcely can their thought surmise,
Who but glimpse through these my eyes
Joy as fathomless as brief.
Others in this strange world flung,
Orphans, too, of Destiny,
Have the virtue, but not I,
Keeps heart crystal, single tongue;
And know not, whose hearts are whole,
How — when sickened and unclean,
Unfit or to see, be seen —
Close thorns pack and prick the soul.
Yet though here soul suffereth,
Complicate by vision's light,
Never would I cede this right
Of a sharpened life and death.
For I keep in confidence
In my breast a subtle faith
‘ Scapes alway by narrow scathe
And I draw my succour thence.
One Day, or maybe one Night —
Living? dying?— I shall see
The Rose open gloriously
On its heart of living light.
Know what any bird may mean,
Meteor in my heart shall rest,
Spelled on my brain blaze th’ unguessed
Words of the rainbow's dazzling sheen.
O the hour for which I wait!
Lovers of the Secret Love
Watch with me, and we will prove
Constancy can be elate.
For the sigil we have now
Is but echo, shadow, less
Than a nothing's nothingness,
To what that hour will allow:
Lost and found! The Shining Ones!
Music, passion, scent, delight,
Light and depth and space and height:
Heaven and its seven suns!