The Face of the Deep (on Revelation); Poems

Hope new born one pleasant morn Died at even; Hope dead lives nevermore, No, not in heaven.

If his shroud were but a cloud To weep itself away; Or were he buried underground To sprout some day! But dead and gone is dead and gone Vainly wept upon.

Nought we place above his face To mark the spot, But it shows a barren place In our lot.

A fool I was to sleep at noon, And wake when night is chilly Beneath the comfortless cold moon; A fool to pluck my rose too soon, A fool to snap my lily.

My garden-plot I have not kept; Faded and all-forsaken, I weep as I have never wept: Oh it was summer when I slept, It's winter now I waken.

Talk what you please of future spring And sun-warmed sweet to-morrow:— Stripped bare of hope and every thing, No more to laugh, no more to sing, I sit alone with sorrow.

I marked where lovely Venus and her court With song and dance and merry laugh went by; Weightless, their wingless feet seemed made to fly, Bound from the ground and in mid air to sport. Left far behind I heard the dolphins snort, Tracking their goddess with a wistful eye, Around whose head white doves rose, wheeling high Or low, and cooed after their tender sort. All this I saw in spring. Through summer heat I saw the lovely Queen of Love no more. But when flushed autumn through the woodlands went I spied sweet Venus walk amid the wheat: Whom seeing, every harvester gave o'er His toil, and laughed and hoped and was content.

Love that is dead and buried, yesterday Out of his grave rose up before my face, No recognition in his look, no trace Of memory in his eyes dust-dimmed and grey. While I, remembering, found no word to say, But felt my quickened heart leap in its place; Caught afterglow thrown back from long set days, Caught echoes of all music passed away. Was this indeed to meet?—I mind me yet In youth we met when hope and love were quick, We parted with hope dead, but love alive: I mind me how we parted then heart sick, Remembering, loving, hopeless, weak to strive:— Was this to meet? Not so, we have not met.

The sunrise wakes the lark to sing, The moonrise wakes the nightingale. Come darkness, moonrise, every thing That is so silent, sweet, and pale: Come, so ye wake the nightingale.

Make haste to mount, thou wistful moon, Make haste to wake the nightingale: Let silence set the world in tune To hearken to that wordless tale Which warbles from the nightingale

O herald skylark, stay thy flight One moment, for a nightingale Floods us with sorrow and delight. To-morrow thou shalt hoist the sail; Leave us to-night the nightingale.

Two days ago with dancing glancing hair, With living lips and eyes: Now pale, dumb, blind, she lies; So pale, yet still so fair.

We have not left her yet, not yet alone; But soon must leave her where She will not miss our care, Bone of our bone.

Weep not; O friends, we should not weep: Our friend of friends lies full of rest; No sorrow rankles in her breast, Fallen fast asleep.

She sleeps below, She wakes and laughs above; To-day, as she walked, let us walk in love, To-morrow follow so.

We met, hand to hand, We clasped hands close and fast, As close as oak and ivy stand; But it is past: Come day, come night, day comes at last.

We loosed hand from hand, We parted face from face; Each went his way to his own land At his own pace: Each went to fill his separate place.

If we should meet one day, If both should not forget. We shall clasp hands the accustomed way, As when we met So long ago, as I remember yet.

Where my heart is (wherever that may be) Might I but follow! If you fly thither over heath and lea, O honey-seeking bee, O careless swallow! Bid some for whom I watch keep watch for me

Alas! that we must dwell, my heart and I, So far asunder. Hours wax to days, and days and days creep by; I watch with wistful eye, I wait and wonder: When will that day draw nigh—that hour draw nigh?

Not yesterday, and not I think to-day; Perhaps to-morrow. Day after day "to-morrow," thus I say: I watched so yesterday In hope and sorrow, Again to-day I watch the accustomed way.

It's a year almost that I have not seen her: Oh, last summer green things were greener, Brambles fewer, the blue sky bluer.

It's surely summer, for there's a swallow: Come one swallow, his mate will follow, The bird race quicken and wheel and thicken.

Oh happy swallow whose mate will follow O'er height, o'er hollow! I'd be a swallow, To build this weather one nest together.

A smile because the nights are short! And every morning brings such pleasure Of sweet love-making, harmless sport: Love that makes and finds its treasure; Love, treasure without measure.

A sigh because the days are long! Long, long these days that pass in sighing, A burden saddens every song: While time lags which should be flying, We live who would be dying.

"O where are you going with your love-locks flowing, On the west wind blowing along this valley track?" "The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye, We shall escape the uphill by never turning back."

So they two went together in glowing August weather, The honey-breathing heather lay to their left and right; And dear she was to doat on, her swift feet seemed to float on The air like soft twin pigeons too sportive to alight.

"Oh, what is that in heaven where grey cloud-flakes are seven, Where blackest clouds hang riven just at the rainy skirt?" "Oh, that's a meteor sent us, a message dumb, portentous, An undeciphered solemn signal of help or hurt."

"Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly, Their scent comes rich and sickly?"—"A scaled and hooded worm." "Oh, what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?" "Oh, that's a thin dead body which waits the eternal term."

"Turn again, O my sweetest,—turn again, false and fleetest: This beaten way thou beatest I fear is hell's own track." "Nay, too steep for hill mounting; nay, too late for cost counting: This downhill path is easy, but there's no turning back."

In the bleak mid-winter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak mid-winter Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him Nor earth sustain; Heaven and earth shall flee away When He comes to reign: In the bleak mid-winter A stable-place sufficed The Lord God Almighty Jesus Christ.

Enough for Him whom cherubim Worship night and day, A breastful of milk And a mangerful of hay; Enough for Him whom angels Fall down before, The ox and ass and camel Which adore.

Angels and archangels May have gathered there, Cherubim and seraphim Throng'd the air, But only His mother In her maiden bliss Worshipped her Beloved With a kiss.

What can I give Him, Poor as I am? If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb, If I were a wise man I would do my part,— Yet what I can I give Him, Give my heart.

Here, where I dwell, I waste to skin and bone; The curse is come upon me, and I waste In penal torment powerless to atone. The curse is come on me, which makes no haste And doth not tarry, crushing both the proud Hard man and him the sinner double-faced. Look not upon me, for my soul is bowed Within me, as my body in this mire; My soul crawls dumb-struck, sore bestead and cowed As Sodom and Gomorrah scourged by fire, As Jericho before God's trumpet-peal, So we the elect ones perish in His ire. Vainly we gird on sackcloth, vainly kneel With famished faces toward Jerusalem: His heart is shut against us not to feel, His ears against our cry He shutteth them, His hand He shorteneth that He will not save, His law is loud against us to condemn: And we, as unclean bodies in the grave Inheriting corruption and the dark, Are outcast from His presence which we crave. Our Mercy hath departed from His Ark, Our Glory hath departed from His rest, Our Shield hath left us naked as a mark Unto all pitiless eyes made manifest. Our very Father hath forsaken us, Our God hath cast us from Him: we oppress'd Unto our foes are even marvellous, A hissing and a butt for pointing hands, Whilst God Almighty hunts and grinds us thus; For He hath scattered us in alien lands, Our priests, our princes, our anointed king, And bound us hand and foot with brazen bands. Here while I sit, my painful heart takes wing Home to the home-land I may see no more, Where milk and honey flow, where waters spring And fail not, where I dwelt in days of yore Under my fig-tree and my fruitful vine, There where my parents dwelt at ease before: Now strangers press the olives that are mine, Reap all the corners of my harvest-field, And make their fat hearts wanton with my wine; To them my trees, to them my gardens yield Their sweets and spices and their tender green, O'er them in noontide heat outspread their shield. Yet these are they whose fathers had not been Housed with my dogs; whom hip and thigh we smote And with their blood washed their pollutions clean, Purging the land which spewed them from its throat; Their daughters took we for a pleasant prey, Choice tender ones on whom the fathers dote: Now they in turn have led our own away; Our daughters and our sisters and our wives Sore weeping as they weep who curse the day, To live, remote from help, dishonoured lives, Soothing their drunken masters with a song, Or dancing in their golden tinkling gyves— Accurst if they remember through the long Estrangement of their exile, twice accursed If they forget and join the accursèd throng. How doth my heart that is so wrung not burst When I remember that my way was plain, And that God's candle lit me at the first, Whilst now I grope in darkness, grope in vain, Desiring but to find Him Who is lost, To find him once again, but once again! His wrath came on us to the uttermost, His covenanted and most righteous wrath. Yet this is He of Whom we made our boast, Who lit the Fiery Pillar in our path, Who swept the Red Sea dry before our feet, Who in His jealousy smote kings, and hath Sworn once to David: One shall fill thy seat Born of thy body, as the sun and moon 'Stablished for aye in sovereignty complete. O Lord, remember David, and that soon. The Glory hath departed, Ichabod! Yet now, before our sun grow dark at noon, Before we come to nought beneath Thy rod, Before we go down quick into the pit, Remember us for good, O God, our God:— Thy Name will I remember, praising it, Though Thou forget me, though Thou hide Thy face, And blot me from the Book which Thou hast writ; Thy Name will I remember in my praise And call to mind Thy faithfulness of old, Though as a weaver Thou cut off my days And end me as a tale ends that is told.

Once in a dream I saw the flowers That bud and bloom in Paradise; More fair they are than waking eyes Have seen in all this world of ours. And faint the perfume-bearing rose, And faint the lily on its stem, And faint the perfect violet Compared with them.

I heard the songs of Paradise: Each bird sat singing in his place; A tender song so full of grace It soared like incense to the skies. Each bird sat singing to his mate Soft-cooing notes among the trees: The nightingale herself were cold To such as these.

I saw the fourfold River flow, And deep it was, with golden sand; It flowed between a mossy land With murmured music grave and low. It hath refreshment for all thirst, For fainting spirits strength and rest; Earth holds not such a draught as this From east to west.

The Tree of Life stood budding there, Abundant with its twelvefold fruits; Eternal sap sustains its roots, Its shadowing branches fill the air. Its leaves are healing for the world, Its fruit the hungry world can feed, Sweeter than honey to the taste, And balm indeed.

I saw the gate called Beautiful; And looked, but scarce could look within; I saw the golden streets begin, And outskirts of the glassy pool. Oh harps, oh crowns of plenteous stars, O green palm branches many-leaved— Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard, Nor heart conceived!

I hope to see these things again, But not as once in dreams by night; To see them with my very sight, And touch and handle and attain: To have all Heaven beneath my feet For narrow way that once they trod; To have my part with all the saints, And with my God.