Part 14 (1/2)

Rivet with stars the Heaven, For causeways to Thy driven Car In its coming far

Unto him, only him; In Thy deific whim Didst bound Thy works' great round

In this small ring of flesh; The sky's gold-knotted mesh Thy wrist Did only twist

To take him in that net.-- Man! swinging-wicket set Between The Unseen and Seen,

Lo, G.o.d's two worlds immense, Of spirit and of sense, Wed In this narrow bed;

Yea, and the midge's hymn Answers the seraphim Athwart Thy body's court!

Great arm-fellow of G.o.d!

To the ancestral clod Kin, And to cherubin;

Bread predilectedly O' the worm and Deity!

Hark, O G.o.d's clay-sealed Ark,

To praise that fits thee, clear To the ear within the ear, But dense To clay-sealed sense.

Thee G.o.d's great utterance bore, O secret metaphor Of what Thou dream'st no jot!

Cosmic metonymy; Weak world-unshuttering key; One Seal of Solomon!

Trope that itself not scans Its huge significance, Which tries Cherubic eyes.

Primer where the angels all G.o.d's grammar spell in small, Nor spell The highest too well.

Point for the great descants Of starry disputants; Equation Of creation.

Thou meaning, couldst thou see, Of all which dafteth thee; So plain, It mocks thy pain;

Stone of the Law indeed, Thine own self couldst thou read, Thy bliss Within thee is.

Compost of Heaven and mire, Slow foot and swift desire!

Lo, To have Yes, choose No;

Gird, and thou shalt unbind; Seek not, and thou shalt find; To eat, Deny thy meat;

And thou shalt be fulfilled With all sweet things unwilled: So best G.o.d loves to jest

With children small--a freak Of heavenly hide-and-seek Fit For thy wayward wit,

Who art thyself a thing Of whim and wavering; Free When His wings pen thee;

Sole fully blest, to feel G.o.d whistle thee at heel; Drunk up As a dew-drop,

When He bends down, sun-wise, Intemperable eyes; Most proud, When utterly bowed,

To feel thyself and be His dear nonent.i.ty-- Caught Beyond human thought

In the thunder-spout of Him, Until thy being dim And be Dead deathlessly.

Stoop, stoop; for thou dost fear The nettle's wrathful spear, So slight Art thou of might!

Rise; for Heaven hath no frown When thou to thee pluck'st down, Strong clod!