Part 7 (1/2)
Then is thy gorge a canyon of despair, A prison for the soul of man, a grave Of all his dearest daring hopes! The world Wherein we live and move is meaningless, No spirit here to answer to our own!
The stars without a guide: The chance-born Earth Adrift in s.p.a.ce, no Captain on the s.h.i.+p: Nothing in all the universe to prove Eternal wisdom and eternal love!
And man, the latest accident of Time,-- Who thinks he loves, and longs to understand, Who vainly suffers, and in vain is brave, Who dupes his heart with immortality,-- Man is a living lie,--a bitter jest Upon himself,--a conscious grain of sand Lost in a desert of unconsciousness, Thirsting for G.o.d and mocked by his own thirst.
Spirit of Beauty, mother of delight, Thou fairest offspring of Omnipotence Inhabiting this lofty lone abode, Speak to my heart again and set me free From all these doubts that darken earth and heaven!
Who sent thee forth into the wilderness To bless and comfort all who see thy face?
Who clad thee in this more than royal robe Of rainbows? Who designed these jewelled thrones For thee, and wrought these glittering palaces?
Who gave thee power upon the soul of man To lift him up through wonder into joy?
G.o.d! let the radiant cliffs bear witness, G.o.d!
Let all the s.h.i.+ning pillars signal, G.o.d!
He only, on the mystic loom of light.
Hath woven webs of loveliness to clothe His most majestic works: and He alone Hath delicately wrought the cactus-flower To star the desert floor with rosy bloom.
O Beauty, handiwork of the Most High, Where'er thou art He tells his Love to man, And lo, the day breaks, and the shadows flee!
Now, far beyond all language and all art In thy wild splendour, Canyon marvellous, The secret of thy stillness lies unveiled In wordless wors.h.i.+p! This is holy ground; Thou art no grave, no prison, but a shrine.
Garden of Temples filled with Silent Praise, If G.o.d were blind thy Beauty could not be!
February 24-26, 1913.
THE HEAVENLY HILLS OF HOLLAND
The heavenly hills of Holland,-- How wondrously they rise Above the smooth green pastures Into the azure skies!
With blue and purple hollows, With peaks of dazzling snow, Along the far horizon The clouds are marching slow.
No mortal foot has trodden The summits of that range, Nor walked those mystic valleys Whose colours ever change; Yet we possess their beauty, And visit them in dreams, While ruddy gold of sunset From cliff and canyon gleams.
In days of cloudless weather They melt into the light; When fog and mist surround us They're hidden from our sight; But when returns a season Clear s.h.i.+ning after rain, While the northwest wind is blowing, We see the hills again.
The old Dutch painters loved them, Their pictures show them fair,-- Old Hobbema and Ruysdael, Van Goyen and Vermeer.
Above the level landscape, Rich polders, long-armed mills, Ca.n.a.ls and ancient cities,-- Float Holland's heavenly hills.
The Hague, November, 1916.
FLOOD-TIDE OF FLOWERS
IN HOLLAND
The laggard winter ebbed so slow With freezing rain and melting snow, It seemed as if the earth would stay Forever where the tide was low, In sodden green and watery gray.
But now from depths beyond our sight, The tide is turning in the night, And floods of colour long concealed Come silent rising toward the light, Through garden bare and empty field.
And first, along the sheltered nooks, The crocus runs in little brooks Of joyance, till by light made bold They show the gladness of their looks In s.h.i.+ning pools of white and gold.