Part 4 (2/2)
White glories of wings As of seafaring birds That flock from the springs Of the sunrise in herds With the wind for a herdsman, and hasten or halt at the change of his words.
As the watchword's change When the wind's note s.h.i.+fts, And the skies grow strange, And the white squall drifts Up sharp from the sea-line, vexing the sea till the low cloud lifts.
At the charge of his word Bidding pause, bidding haste, When the ranks are stirred And the lines displaced, They scatter as wild swans parting adrift on the wan green waste.
At the hush of his word In a pause of his breath When the waters have heard His will that he saith, They stand as a flock penned close in its fold for division of death.
As a flock by division Of death to be thinned, As the shades in a vision Of spirits that sinned; So glimmer their shrouds and their sheetings as clouds on the stream of the wind.
But the sun stands fast, And the sea burns bright, And the flight of them past Is no more than the flight Of the snow-soft swarm of serene wings poised and afloat in the light.
Like flowers upon flowers In a festival way When hours after hours Shed grace on the day, White blossomlike b.u.t.terflies hover and gleam through the snows of the spray.
Like snow-coloured petals Of blossoms that flee From storm that unsettles The flower as the tree They flutter, a legion of flowers on the wing, through the field of the sea.
Through the furrowless field Where the foam-blossoms blow And the secrets are sealed Of their harvest below They float in the path of the sunbeams, as flakes or as blossoms of snow.
Till the sea's ways darken, And the G.o.d, withdrawn, Give ear not or hearken If prayer on him fawn, And the sun's self seem but a shadow, the noon as a ghost of the dawn.
No shadow, but rather G.o.d, father of song, Shew grace to me, Father G.o.d, loved of me long, That I lose not the light of thy face, that my trust in thee work me not wrong.
While yet I make forward With face toward thee Not turned yet in sh.o.r.eward, Be thine upon me; Be thy light on my forehead or ever I turn it again from the sea.
As a kiss on my brow Be the light of thy grace, Be thy glance on me now From the pride of thy place: As the sign of a sire to a son be the light on my face of thy face.
Thou wast father of olden Times hailed and adored, And the sense of thy golden Great harp's monochord Was the joy in the soul of the singers that hailed thee for master and lord.
Fair father of all In thy ways that have trod, That have risen at thy call, That have thrilled at thy nod, Arise, s.h.i.+ne, lighten upon me, O sun that we see to be G.o.d.
As my soul has been dutiful Only to thee, O G.o.d most beautiful, Lighten thou me, As I swim through the dim long rollers, with eyelids uplift from the sea.
Be praised and adored of us All in accord, Father and lord of us Alway adored, The slayer and the stayer and the harper, the light of us all and our lord.
At the sound of thy lyre, At the touch of thy rod, Air quickens to fire By the foot of thee trod, The saviour and healer and singer, the living and visible G.o.d.
The years are before thee As shadows of thee, As men that adore thee, As cloudlets that flee: But thou art the G.o.d, and thy kingdom is heaven, and thy shrine is the sea.
_AFTER NINE YEARS._
TO JOSEPH MAZZINI.
_Prima dicte mihi, summa dicende Camena._
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