Part 2 (1/2)

Lift, lift, ye gates of endless noons, That entrance yield on G.o.d's own boons Of liberty as law in fruitage, And timeless months of transcendent Junes!

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O June has lit her splendid lamp In the broad meadow lush and damp, Where loves the brook in loops to loiter, And tufted vernal to pitch its camp!

Last night she veiled the starlit sky, And walked beside the brook so shy; She took from out her beating bosom A lighted orchis--and pa.s.sed on high.

At dawn July came o'er the hills-- O light of eye and deep heart-thrills, As she beheld the glowing orchis Whose splendor now all the meadow fills!

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A quiet breath distils in calm, And fills the fields with honeyed balm; It cools the rose's cheek, and rolleth In drops of dew on the poppy's palm--

Each crystal globe filled full of fire, And flas.h.i.+ng like a color pyre, All heavened beneath the eye of morning, To sate the hunger of day's desire.

O Breath divine, that form and hue, And ecstasy of light and blue, Gave to Orion and the Pleiads, Thou hast begotten the orbs of dew.

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Far-off and veiled it seems to me, The face of yester dreamy sea, That breathed so soft its s.h.i.+ning waters Pungent with odors of rosemary.

No sculptured arabesque to-day, But unhewn strength in mighty play, That heaves the s.h.i.+p on bursting billow And smites the cliff in its ancient way!

Beneath its silken vestments beat A lion heart of jungle heat; Its couchant soul delights in battle To fell the rock and to whelm the fleet.

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Vast promise is the sea, and vast Its pain. Its secret is held fast,-- Now hope's wide open eye and sunny, And now a weeping and wailing past.

(I have a grievance unredrest That stings my heart and rends my breast,-- Perhaps _it_ gathers in its bosom The sorrows wild of the world's opprest?)

Deformity or pain unstrings The music of the soul of things,-- Ah, suns burn bright in eyes of panther, And lightnings leap in the eagle's wings!

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Calm soul, unkindled by the sight Of open heavens at noon of night, Thou'lt dread the fires of day of judgment When roll the skies as a parchment slight.

He waits not for that upward gaze-- The world is full of judgment days; And every night the page is written, ”An atheist,” or ”Behold he prays!”

Ah, me! These lights so manifold, So silvern new, so golden old, Do witness swift, like fires of vengeance, Against indifferent hearts and cold.

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