Part 4

As sap foretastes the spring; As Earth ere blossoming Thrills With far daffodils,

And feels her breast turn sweet With the unconceivèd wheat; So doth My flesh foreloathe

The abhorrèd spring of Dis, With seething presciences Affirm The preparate worm.

I have no thought that I, When at the last I die, Shall reach To gain your speech.

But you, should that be so, May very well, I know, May well To me in hell

With recognising eyes Look from your Paradise— “God bless Thy hopelessness!”

Call, holy soul, O call The hosts angelical, And say,— “See, far away

“Lies one I saw on earth; One stricken from his birth With curse Of destinate verse.

“What place doth He ye serve For such sad spirit reserve,— Given, In dark lieu of Heaven,

“The impitiable Dæmon, Beauty, to adore and dream on, To be Perpetually

“Hers, but she never his? He reapeth miseries, Foreknows His wages woes;

“He lives detachèd days; He serveth not for praise; For gold He is not sold;

“Deaf is he to world’s tongue; He scorneth for his song The loud Shouts of the crowd;

“He asketh not world’s eyes; Not to world’s ears he cries; Saith,—‘These Shut, if ye please;’

“He measureth world’s pleasure, World’s ease as Saints might measure; For hire Just love entire

“He asks, not grudging pain; And knows his asking vain, And cries— ‘Love! Love!’ and dies;

“In guerdon of long duty, Unowned by Love or Beauty; And goes— Tell, tell, who knows!

“Aliens from Heaven’s worth, Fine beasts who nose i’ the earth, Do there Reward prepare.

“But are his great desires Food but for nether fires? Ah me, A mystery!

“Can it be his alone, To find when all is known, That what He solely sought

“Is lost, and thereto lost All that its seeking cost? That he Must finally,

“Through sacrificial tears, And anchoretic years, Tryst With the sensualist?”

So ask; and if they tell The secret terrible, Good friend, I pray thee send

Some high gold embassage To teach my unripe age. Tell! Lest my feet walk hell.

A FALLEN YEW.

IT seemed corrival of the world’s great prime, Made to un-edge the scythe of Time, And last with stateliest rhyme.

No tender Dryad ever did indue That rigid chiton of rough yew, To fret her white flesh through:

But some god like to those grim Asgard lords, Who walk the fables of the hordes From Scandinavian fjords,