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779                                         The Blessàd Damozel

THE blessàd damozel lean’d out
  From the gold bar of Heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth
  Of waters still’d at even;
She had three lilies in her hand,
  And the stars in her hair were seven.
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem,
  No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary’s gift,
  For service meetly worn;
Her hair that lay along her back
  Was yellow like ripe corn.
Herseem’d she scarce had been a day
  One of God’s choristers;
The wonder was not yet quite gone
  From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day
  Had counted as ten years.
(To one, it is ten years of years.
  ... Yet now, and in this place,
Surely she lean’d o’er me—her hair
  Fell all about my face....
Nothing: the autumn-fall of leaves.
  The whole year sets apace.)
It was the rampart of God’s house
  That she was standing on;
By God built over the sheer depth
  The which is Space begun;
So high, that looking downward thence
  She scarce could see the sun.
It lies in Heaven, across the flood
  Of ether, as a bridge.
Beneath, the tides of day and night
  With flame and darkness ridge
The void, as low as where this earth
  Spins like a fretful midge.
Around her, lovers, newly met
  ’Mid deathless love’s acclaims,
Spoke evermore among themselves
  Their heart-remember’d names;
And the souls mounting up to God
  Went by her like thin flames.
And still she bow’d herself and stoop’d
  Out of the circling charm;
Until her bosom must have made
  The bar she lean’d on warm,
And the lilies lay as if asleep
  Along her bended arm.
From the fix’d place of Heaven she saw
  Time like a pulse shake fierce
Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove
  Within the gulf to pierce
Its path; and now she spoke as when
  The stars sang in their spheres.
The sun was gone now; the curl’d moon
  Was like a little feather
Fluttering far down the gulf; and now
  She spoke through the still weather.
Her voice was like the voice the stars
  Had when they sang together.
(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird’s song,
  Strove not her accents there,
Fain to be hearkened? When those bells
  Possess’d the mid-day air,
Strove not her steps to reach my side
  Down all the echoing stair?)
‘I wish that he were come to me:
  For he will come,’ she said.
‘Have I not pray’d in Heaven?—on earth,
  Lord, Lord, has he not pray’d?
Are not two prayers a perfect strength?
  And shall I feel afraid?
‘When round his head the aureole clings,
  And he is clothed in white,
I’ll take his hand and go with him
  To the deep wells of light;
As unto a stream we will step down,
  And bathe there in God’s sight.
‘We two will stand beside that shrine,
  Occult, withheld, untrod,
Whose lamps are stirred continually
  With prayer sent up to God;
And see our old prayers, granted, melt
  Each like a little cloud.
‘We two will lie i’ the shadow of
  That living mystic tree,
Within whose secret growth the Dove
  Is sometimes felt to be,
While every leaf that His plumes touch
  Saith His Name audibly.
‘And I myself will teach to him,
  I myself, lying so,
The songs I sing here; which his voice
  Shall pause in, hush’d and slow,
And find some knowledge at each pause,
  Or some new thing to know.’
(Alas! We two, we two, thou say’st!
  Yea, one wast thou with me
That once of old. But shall God lift
  To endless unity
The soul whose likeness with thy soul
  Was but its love for thee?)
‘We two,’ she said, ‘will seek the groves
  Where the lady Mary is,
With her five handmaidens, whose names
  Are five sweet symphonies,
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen,
  Margaret and Rosalys.
‘Circlewise sit they, with bound locks
  And foreheads garlanded;
Into the fine cloth white like flame
  Weaving the golden thread,
To fashion the birth-robes for them
  Who are just born, being dead.
‘He shall fear, haply, and be dumb:
  Then will I lay my cheek
To his, and tell about our love,
  Not once abash’d or weak:
And the dear Mother will approve
  My pride, and let me speak.
‘Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,
  To Him round whom all souls
Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads
  Bowed with their aureoles:
And angels meeting us shall sing
  To their citherns and citoles.
‘There will I ask of Christ the Lord
  Thus much for him and me:—
Only to live as once on earth
  With Love,—only to be,
As then awhile, for ever now
  Together, I and he.’
She gazed and listen’d and then said,
  Less sad of speech than mild,—
‘All this is when he comes.’ She ceased.
  The light thrill’d towards her, fill’d
With angels in strong level flight.
  Her eyes prayed, and she smiled.
(I saw her smile.) But soon their path
  Was vague in distant spheres:
And then she cast her arms along
  The golden barriers,
And laid her face between her hands,
  And wept. (I heard her tears.)

780                                             The Woodspurge

THE wind flapped loose, the wind was still,
Shaken out dead from tree and hill:
I had walk’d on at the wind’s will,—
I sat now, for the wind was still.
Between my knees my forehead was,—
My lips, drawn in, said not Alas!
My hair was over in the grass,
My naked ears heard the day pass.
My eyes, wide open, had the run
Of some ten weeds to fix upon;
Among those few, out of the sun,
The woodspurge flower’d, three cups in one.
From perfect grief there need not be
Wisdom or even memory:
One thing learnt remains to me,—
The woodspurge has a cup of three.

781                                            Soul’s Beauty

UNDER the arch of Life, where love and death,
  Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw
  Beauty enthroned; and though her gaze struck awe,
I drew it in as simply as my breath.
Hers are the eyes which, over and beneath,
  The sky and sea bend on thee,—which can draw,
  By sea or sky or woman, to one law,
The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath.
This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise
  Thy voice and hand shake still,—long known to thee
   By flying hair and fluttering hem,—the beat
   Following her daily of thy heart and feet,
  How passionately and irretrievably,
In what fond flight, how many ways and days!

782                                             The Choice

THINK thou and act; to-morrow thou shalt die.
  Outstretch’d in the sun’s warmth upon the shore,
 Thou say’st: ‘Man’s measured path is all gone o’er:
Up all his years, steeply, with strain and sigh,
Man clomb until he touch’d the truth; and I,
  Even I, am he whom it was destined for.’
  How should this be? Art thou then so much more
Than they who sow’d, that thou shouldst reap thereby?

Nay, come up hither. From this wave-wash’d mound
  Unto the furthest flood-brim look with me;
Then reach on with thy thought till it be drown’d.
  Miles and miles distant though the last line be,
And though thy soul sail leagues and leagues beyond,—
  Still, leagues beyond those leagues, there is more sea.


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