Elizabeth Barrett Browning - A Vision Of Poets lyrics

A poet could not sleep aright
For his soul kept up too much light
Under his eyelids for the night

And thus he rose disquieted
With sweet rhymes ringing through his head
And in the forest wanderèd

Where, sloping up the darkest glades
The moon had drawn long colonnades
Upon whose floor the verdure fades

To a faint silver: pavement fair
The antique wood-nymphs scarce would dare
To foot-print o'er, had such been there

And rather sit by breathlessly
With fear in their large eyes, to see
The consecrated sight but he

The poet who, with spirit-kiss


Familiar, had long claimed for his
Whatever earthly beauty is

Who also in his spirit bore
A beauty passing the earth's store
Walked calmly onward evermore
His aimless thoughts in metre went
Like a babe's hand without intent
Drawn down a seven-stringed instrument:

Nor jarred it with his humour as
With a faint stirring of the grass
An apparition fair did pass

He might have feared another time
But all things fair and strange did chime
With his thoughts then, as rhyme to rhyme

An angel had not startled him
Alighted from heaven's burning rim
To breathe from glory in the Dim

Much less a lady riding slow
Upon a palfrey white as snow
And smooth as a snow-cloud could go

Full upon his she turned her face
"What ho, sir poet! dost thou pace
Our woods at night in ghostly chase

"Of some fair Dryad of old tales
Who chants between the nightingales
And over sleep by song prevails?"
She smiled but he could see arise
Her soul from far adown her eyes
Prepared as if for sacrifice

She looked a queen who seemeth gay
From royal grace alone "Now, nay, "
He answered, "slumber passed away

"Compelled by instincts in my head
That I should see to-night, instead
Of a fair nymph, some fairer Dread"

She looked up quickly to the sky
And spake: "The moon's regality
Will hear no praise She is as I

"She is in heaven, and I on earth
This is my kingdom: I come forth
To crown all poets to their worth"

He brake in with a voice that mourned
"To their worth, lady? They are scorned
By men they sing for, till inurned

"To their worth? Beauty in the mind
Leaves the hearth cold, and love-refined
Ambitions make the world unkind
"The boor who ploughs the daisy down
The chief whose mortgage of renown
Fixed upon graves, has bought a crown

"Both these are happier, more approved
Than poets! why should I be moved
In saying, both are more beloved?"

"The south can judge not of the north, "
She resumed calmly "I come forth
To crown all poets to their worth

"Yea, verily, to anoint them all
With blessed oils which surely shall
Smell sweeter as the ages fall"

"As sweet, " the poet said, and rung
A low sad laugh, "as flowers are, sprung
Out of their graves when they die young

"As sweet as window-eglantine
Some bough of which, as they decline
The hired nurse gathers at their sign:

"As sweet, in short, as perfumed shroud
Which the gay Roman maidens sewed
For English Keats, singing aloud"

The lady answered, "Yea, as sweet!
The things thou namest being complete
In fragrance, as I measure it

"Since sweet the death-clothes and the knell
Of him who having lived, dies well
And wholly sweet the asphodel

"Stirred softly by that foot of his
When he treads brave on all that is
Into the world of souls, from this

"Since sweet the tears, dropped at the door
Of tearless Death, and even before:
Sweet, consecrated evermore

"What, dost thou judge it a strange thing
That poets, crowned for vanquishing
Should bear some dust from out the ring?

"Come on with me, come on with me
And learn in coming: let me free
Thy spirit into verity"

She ceased: her palfrey's paces sent
No separate noises as she went
'Twas a bee's hum, a little spent

And while the poet seemed to tread
Along the drowsy noise so made
The forest heaved up overhead

Its billowy foliage through the air
And the calm stars did far and spare
O'erswim the masses everywhere

Save when the overtopping pines
Did bar their tremulous light with lines
All fixed and black now the moon shines

A broader glory you may see
The trees grow rarer presently
The air blows up more fresh and free:

Until they come from dark to light
And from the forest to the sight
Of the large heaven heart, bare with night

A fiery throb in every star
Those burning arteries that are
The conduit's of God's life afar

A wild brown moorland underneath
And four pools breaking up the heath
With white low gleamings, blank as death

Beside the first pool, near the wood
A dead tree in set horror stood
Peeled and disjointed, stark as rood

Since thunder-stricken, years ago
Fixed in the spectral strain and throe
Wherewith it struggled from the blow:

A monumental tree, alone
That will not bend in storms, nor groan
But break off sudden like a stone

Its lifeless shadow lies oblique
Upon the pool where, javelin-like
The star rays quiver while they strike

"Drink, " said the lady, very still
"Be holy and cold" He did her will
And drank the starry water chill

The next pool they came near unto
Was bare of trees there, only grew
Straight flags, and lilies just a few

Which sullen on the water sate
And leant their faces on the flat
As weary of the starlight-state

"Drink, " said the lady, grave and slow
"World's use behoveth thee to know"
He drank the bitter wave below

The third pool, girt with thorny bushes
And flaunting weeds and reeds and rushes
That winds sang through in mournful gushes

Was whitely smeared in many a round
By a slow slime the starlight swound
Over the ghastly light it found

"Drink, " said the lady, sad and slow
"World's love behoveth thee to know"
He looked to her commanding so

Her brow was troubled, but her eye
Struck clear to his soul for all reply
He drank the water suddenly

Then, with a deathly sickness, passed
Beside the fourth pool and the last
Where weights of shadow were downcast

From yew and alder and rank trails
Of nightshade clasping the trunk-scales
And flung across the intervals

From yew to yew: who dares to stoop
Where those dank branches overdroop
Into his heart the chill strikes up

He hears a silent gliding coil
The snakes strain hard against the soil
His foot slips in their slimy oil

And toads seem crawling on his hand
And clinging bats but dimly scanned
Full in his face their wings expand

A paleness took the poet's cheek:
"Must I drink here?" he seemed to seek
The lady's will with utterance meek:

"Ay, ay, " she said, "it so must be"
(And this time she spake cheerfully)
"Behoves thee know World's cruelty"

He bowed his forehead till his mouth
Curved in the wave, and drank unloth
As if from rivers of the south

His lips sobbed through the water rank
His heart paused in him while he drank
His brain beat heart-like, rose and sank

And he swooned backward to a dream
Wherein he lay 'twixt gloom and gleam
With Death and Life at each extreme:

And spiritual thunders, born of soul
Not cloud, did leap from mystic pole
And o'er him roll and counter-roll

Crushing their echoes reboant
With their own wheels did Heaven so grant
His spirit a sign of covenant?

At last came silence a slow kiss
Did crown his forehead after this
His eyelids flew back for the bliss

The lady stood beside his head
Smiling a thought, with hair dispread
The moonshine seemed dishevellèd

In her sleek tresses manifold
Like Danaë's in the rain of old
That dripped with melancholy gold:

But she was holy, pale and high
As one who saw an ecstasy
Beyond a foretold agony

"Rise up!" said she with voice where song
Eddied through speech, "rise up be strong:
And learn how right avenges wrong"

The poet rose up on his feet:
He stood before an altar set
For sacrament with vessels meet

And mystic altar-lights which shine
As if their flames were crystalline
Carved flames that would not shrink or pine

The altar filled the central place
Of a great church, and toward it's face
Long aisles did shoot and interlace

And from it a continuous mist
Of incense (round the edges kissed
By a yellow light of amethyst)

Wound upward slowly and throbbingly
Cloud within cloud, right silverly
Cloud above cloud, victoriously

Broke full against the archèd roof
And thence refracting eddied off
And floated through the marble woof

Of many a fine-wrought architrave
Then, poising it's white masses brave
Swept solemnly down aisle and nave

Where, now in dark and now in light
The countless columns, glimmering white
Seemed leading out to the Infinite:

Plunged halfway up the shaft, they showed
In that pale shifting incense-cloud
Which flowed them by and overflowed

Till mist and marble seemed to blend
And the whole temple, at the end
With it's own incense to distend

The arches like a giant's bow
To bend and slacken, and below
The nichèd saints to come and go:

Alone amid the shifting scene
That central altar stood serene
In it's clear steadfast taper-sheen

Then first, the poet was aware
Of a chief angel standing there
Before that altar, in the glare

His eyes were dreadful, for you saw
That they saw God his lips and jaw
Grand made and strong, as Sinai's law

They could enunciate and refrain
From vibratory after pain
And his brow's height was sovereign:

On the vast background of his wings
Rises his image, and he flings
From each plumed arc pale glitterings

And fiery flakes (as beateth, more
Or less, the angel heart) before
And round him upon roof and floor

Edging with fire the shifting fumes
While at his side 'twixt lights and glooms
The phantasm of an organ booms

Extending from which instrument
And angel, right and left-way bent
The poet's sight grew sentient

Of a strange company around
And toward the altar, pale and bound
With bay above the eyes profound

Deathful their faces were, and yet
The power of life was in them set
Never forgot nor to forget:

Sublime significance of mouth
Dilated nostril full of youth
And forehead royal with the truth

These faces were not multiplied
Beyond your count, but side by side
Did front the altar, glorified

Still as a vision, yet exprest
Full as an action look and geste
Of buried saint in risen rest

The poet knew them faint and dim
His spirit's seemed to sink in him
Then, like a dolphin, change and swim

The current: these were poets true
Who died for Beauty as martyrs do
For Truth the ends being scarcely two

God's prophets of the Beautiful
These poets were of iron rule
The rugged cilix, serge of wool

Here Homer, with the broad suspense
Of thunderous brows, and lips intense
Of garrulous god-innocence

There Shakespeare, on whose forehead climb
The crowns o' the world: O eyes sublime
With tears and laughters for all time!

Here Æschylus, the women swooned
To see so awful when he frowned
As the gods did: he standeth crowned

Euripides, with close and mild
Scholastic lips, that could be wild
And laugh or sob out like a child

Even in the classes sophocles
With that king's-look which down the trees
Followed the dark effigies

Of the lost Theban hesiod old
Who, somewhat blind and deaf and cold
Cared most for gods and bulls and bold

Electric Pindar, quick as fear
With race-dust on his cheeks, and clear
Slant startled eyes that seem to hear

The chariot rounding the last goal
To hurtle past it in his soul
And Sappho, with that gloriole

Of ebon hair on calmèd brows
O poet-woman! none forgoes
The leap, attaining the repose

Theocritus, with glittering locks
Dropt sideway, as betwixt the rocks
He watched the visionary flocks

And Aristophanes, who took
The world with mirth, and laughter-struck
The hollow caves of Thought and woke

The infinite echoes hid in each
And Virgil: shade of Mantuan beech
Did help the shade of bay to reach

And knit around his forehead high:
For his gods wore less majesty
Than his brown bees hummed deathlessly

Lucretius, nobler than his mood
Who dropped his plummet down the broad
Deep universe and said "No God "

Finding no bottom: he denied
Divinely the divine, and died
Chief poet on the Tiber-side

By grace of God: his face is stern
As one compelled, in spite of scorn
To teach a truth he would not learn

And Ossian, dimly seen or guessed
Once counted greater than the rest
When mountain-winds blew out his vest

And Spenser drooped his dreaming head
(With languid sleep-smile you had said
From his own verse engenderèd)

On Ariosto's, till they ran
Their curls in one: the Italian
Shot nimbler heat of bolder man

From his fine lids and Dante stern
And sweet, whose spirit was an urn
For wine and milk poured out in turn

Hard-souled Alfieri and fancy-willed
Boiardo, who with laughter filled
The pauses of the jostled shield

And Berni, with a hand stretched out
To sleek that storm and, not without
The wreath he died in and the doubt

He died by, Tasso, bard and lover
Whose visions were too thin to cover
The face of a false woman over

And soft Racine and grave Corneille
The orator of rhymes, whose wail
Scarce shook his purple and Petrarch pale

From whose brain-lighted heart were thrown
A thousand thoughts beneath the sun
Each lucid with the name of One

And Camoens, with that look he had
Compelling India's Genius sad
From the wave through the Lusiad

The murmurs of the storm-cape ocean
Indrawn in vibrative emotion
Along the verse and, while devotion

In his wild eyes fantastic shone
Under the tonsure blown upon
By airs celestial, Calderon

And bold De Vega, who breathed quick
Verse after verse, till death's old trick
Put pause to life and rhetoric

And Goethe, with that reaching eye
His soul reached out from, far and high
And fell from inner entity

And Schiller, with heroic front
Worthy of Plutarch's kiss upon 't
Too large for wreath of modern wont

And Chaucer, with his infantine
Familiar clasp of things divine
That mark upon his lip is wine

Here, Milton's eyes strike piercing-dim:
The shapes of suns and stars did swim
Like clouds from them, and granted him

God for sole vision cowley, there
Whose active fancy debonair
Drew straws like amber foul to fair

Drayton and Browne, with smiles they drew
From outward nature, still kept new
From their own inward nature true

And Marlowe, Webster, Fletcher, Ben
Whose fire hearts sowed our furrows when
The world was worthy of such men

And Burns, with pungent passionings
Set in his eyes: deep lyric springs
Are of the fire-mount's issuings

And Shelley, in his white ideal
All statue-blind and Keats the real
Adonis with the hymeneal

Fresh vernal buds half sunk between
His youthful curls, kissed straight and sheen
In his Rome-grave, by Venus queen

And poor, proud Byron, sad as grave
And salt as life forlornly brave
And quivering with the dart he drave

And visionary Coleridge, who
Did sweep his thoughts as angels do
Their wings with cadence up the Blue

These poets faced (and many more)
The lighted altar looming o'er
The clouds of incense dim and hoar:

And all their faces, in the lull
Of natural things, looked wonderful
With life and death and deathless rule

All, still as stone and yet intense
As if by spirit's vehemence
That stone were carved and not by sense

But where the heart of each should beat
There seemed a wound instead of it
From whence the blood dropped to their feet

Drop after drop dropped heavily
As century follows century
Into the deep eternity

Then said the lady and her word
Came distant, as wide waves were stirred
Between her and the ear that heard

"World's use is cold, world's love is vain
World's cruelty is bitter bane
But pain is not the fruit of pain

"Hearken, O poet, whom I led
From the dark wood: dismissing dread
Now hear this angel in my stead

"His organ's clavier strikes along
These poets' hearts, sonorous, strong
They gave him without count of wrong

"A diapason whence to guide
Up to God's feet, from these who died
An anthem fully glorified

"Whereat God's blessing, Ibarak (=yivarech=)
Breathes back this music, folds it back
About the earth in vapoury rack

"And men walk in it, crying 'Lo
The world is wider, and we know
The very heavens look brighter so:

"'The stars move statelier round the edge
Of the silver spheres, and give in pledge
Their light for nobler privilege:
"'No little flower but joys or grieves

Full life is rustling in the sheaves
Full spirit sweeps the forest leaves'
"So works this music on the earth

God so admit's it, sends it forth
To add another worth to worth
"A new creation-bloom that rounds

The old creation and expounds
His Beautiful in tuneful sounds
"Now hearken!" Then the poet gazed

Upon the angel glorious-faced
Whose hand, majestically raised
Floated across the organ-keys

Like a pale moon o'er murmuring seas
With no touch but with influences:
Then rose and fell (with swell and swound

Of shapeless noises wandering round
A concord which at last they found)
Those mystic keys: the tones were mixed

Dim, faint, and thrilled and throbbed betwixt
The incomplete and the unfixed:
And therein mighty minds were heard

In mighty musings, inly stirred
And struggling outward for a word:
Until these surges, having run

This way and that, gave out as one
An Aphroditè of sweet tune
A Harmony that, finding vent

Upward in grand ascension went
Winged to a heavenly argument
Up, upward like a saint who strips

The shroud back from his eyes and lips
And rises in apocalypse:
A harmony sublime and plain

Which cleft (as flying swan, the rain
Throwing the drops off with a strain
Of her white wing) those undertones

Of perplext chords, and soared at once
And struck out from the starry thrones
Their several silver octaves as

It passed to God the music was
Of divine stature strong to pass:
And those who heard it, understood

Something of life in spirit and blood
Something of nature's fair and good:
And while it sounded, those great souls

Did thrill as racers at the goals
And burn in all their aureoles
But she the lady, as vapour-bound

Stood calmly in the joy of sound
Like Nature with the showers around:
And when it ceased, the blood which fell

Again, alone grew audible
Tolling the silence as a bell
The sovran angel lifted high

His hand, and spake out sovranly:
"Tried poets, hearken and reply!
"Give me true answers if we grant

That not to suffer, is to want
The conscience of the jubilant
"If ignorance of anguish is

But ignorance, and mortals miss
Far prospects, by a level bliss
"If, as two colours must be viewed

In a visible image, mortals should
Need good and evil, to see good
"If to speak nobly, comprehends

To feel profoundly, if the ends
Of power and suffering, Nature blends
"If poets on the tripod must

Writhe like the Pythian to make just
Their oracles and merit trust
"If every vatic word that sweeps

To change the world must pale their lips
And leave their own souls in eclipse
"If to search deep the universe

Must pierce the searcher with the curse
Because that bolt (in man's reverse)
"Was shot to the heart o' the wood and lies

Wedged deepest in the best, if eyes
That look for visions and surprise
"From influent angels, must shut down

Their eyelids first to sun and moon
The head asleep upon a stone
"If One who did redeem you back

By His own loss, from final wrack
Did consecrate by touch and track
"Those temporal sorrows till the taste

Of brackish waters of the waste
Is salt with tears He dropt too fast
"If all the crowns of earth must wound

With prickings of the thorns He found
If saddest sighs swell sweetest sound
"What say ye unto this? refuse

This baptism in salt water? choose
Calm breasts, mute lips, and labour loose?
"Or, O ye gifted givers! ye

Who give your liberal hearts to me
To make the world this harmony
"Are ye resigned that they be spent

To such world's help?"The Spirit's bent
Their awful brows and said "Content"
Content! it sounded like Amen

Said by a choir of mourning men
An affirmation full of pain
And patience, ay, of glorying

And adoration, as a king
Might seal an oath for governing
Then said the angel and his face

Lightened abroad until the place
Grew larger for a moment's space
The long aisles flashing out in light

And nave and transept, columns white
And arches crossed, being clear to sight
As if the roof were off and all

Stood in the noon-sun, "Lo, I call
To other hearts as liberal
"This pedal strikes out in the air:

My instrument has room to bear
Still fuller strains and perfecter
"Herein is room, and shall be room

While Time lasts, for new hearts to come
Consummating while they consume
"What living man will bring a gift

Of his own heart and help to lift
The tune? The race is to the swift"
So asked the angel straight the while

A company came up the aisle
With measured step and sorted smile
Cleaving the incense-clouds that rise

With winking unaccustomed eyes
And love-locks smelling sweet of spice
One bore his head above the rest

As if the world were dispossessed
And one did pillow chin on breast
Right languid, an as he should faint

One shook his curls across his paint
And moralized on worldly taint
One, slanting up his face, did wink

The salt rheum to the eyelid's brink
To think O gods! or not to think
Some trod out stealthily and slow

As if the sun would fall in snow
If they walked to instead of fro
And some, with conscious ambling free

Did shake their bells right daintily
On hand and foot, for harmony
And some, composing sudden sighs

In attitudes of point-device
Rehearsed impromptu agonies
And when this company drew near

The spirit's crowned, it might appear
Submitted to a ghastly fear
As a sane eye in master passion

Constrains a maniac to the fashion
Of hideous maniac imitation
In the least geste the dropping low

O' the lid, the wrinkling of the brow
Exaggerate with mock and mow
So mastered was that company

By the crowned vision utterly
Swayed to a maniac mockery
One dulled his eyeballs, as they ached

With Homer's forehead, though he lacked
An inch of any and one racked
His lower lip with restless tooth

As Pindar's rushing words forsooth
Were pent behind it one his smooth
Pink cheeks did rumple passionate

Like Æschylus, and tried to prate
On trolling tongue of fate and fate
One set her eyes like Sappho's or

Any light woman's one forbore
Like Dante, or any man as poor
In mirth, to let a smile undo

His hard-shut lips and one that drew
Sour humours from his mother, blew
His sunken cheeks out to the size

Of most unnatural jollities
Because Anacreon looked jest-wise
So with the rest: it was a sight

A great world laughter would requite
Or great world-wrath, with equal right
Out came a speaker from that crowd

To speak for all, in sleek and proud
Exordial periods, while he bowed
His knee before the angel "Thus

O angel who hast called for us
We bring thee service emulous
"Fit service from sufficient soul

Hand-service to receive world's dole
Lip-service in world's ear to roll
"Adjusted concords soft enow

To hear the wine-cups passing, through
And not too grave to spoil the show:
"Thou, certes, when thou askest more

O sapient angel, leanest o'er
The window-sill of metaphor
"To give our hearts up? fie! that rage

Barbaric antedates the age
It is not done on any stage
"Because your scald or gleeman went

With seven or nine-stringed instrument
Upon his back, must ours be bent?
"We are not pilgrims, by your leave

No, nor yet martyrs if we grieve
It is to rhyme to summer eve:
"And if we labour, it shall be

As suiteth best with our degree
In after-dinner reverie"
More yet that speaker would have said

Poising between his smiles fair-fed
Each separate phrase till finishèd
But all the foreheads of those born

And dead true poets flashed with scorn
Betwixt the bay leaves round them worn
Ay, jetted such brave fire that they

The new-come, shrank and paled away
Like leaden ashes when the day
Strikes on the hearth a spirit-blast

A presence known by power, at last
Took them up mutely: they had passed
And he our pilgrim-poet saw

Only their places, in deep awe
What time the angel's smile did draw
His gazing upward smiling on

The angel in the angel shone
Revealing glory in benison
Till, ripened in the light which shut

The poet in, his spirit mute
Dropped sudden as a perfect fruit
He fell before the angel's feet

Saying, "If what is true is sweet
In something I may compass it:
"For, where my worthiness is poor

My will stands richly at the door
To pay shortcomings evermore
"Accept me therefore: not for price

And not for pride my sacrifice
Is tendered, for my soul is nice
"And will beat down those dusty seeds

Of bearded corn if she succeeds
In soaring while the covey feeds
"I soar, I am drawn up like the lark

To it's white cloud so high my mark
Albeit my wing is small and dark
"I ask no wages, seek no fame:

Sew me, for shroud round face and name
God's banner of the oriflamme
"I only would have leave to loose

(In tears and blood if so He choose)
Mine inward music out to use:
"I only would be spent in pain

And loss, perchance, but not in vain
Upon the sweetness of that strain
"Only project beyond the bound

Of mine own life, so lost and found
My voice, and live on in it's sound
"Only embrace and be embraced

By fiery ends, whereby to waste
And light God's future with my past"
The angel's smile grew more divine

The mortal speaking ay, it's shine
Swelled fuller, like a choir note fine
Till the broad glory round his brow

Did vibrate with the light below
But what he said I do not know
Nor know I if the man who prayed

Rose up accepted, unforbade
From the church-floor where he was laid
Nor if a listening life did run

Through the king-poets, one by one
Rejoicing in a worthy son:
My soul, which might have seen, grew blind

By what it looked on: I can find
No certain count of things behind
I saw alone, dim, white and grand

As in a dream, the angel's hand
Stretched forth in gesture of command
Straight through the haze and so, as erst

A strain more noble than the first
Mused in the organ, and outburst:
With giant march from floor to roof

Rose the full notes, now parted off
In pauses massively aloof
Like measured thunders, now rejoined

In concords of mysterious kind
Which fused together sense and mind
Now flashing sharp on sharp along

Exultant in a mounting throng
Now dying off to a low song
Fed upon minors, wavelike sounds

Re-eddying into silver rounds
Enlarging liberty with bounds:
And every rhythm that seemed to close

Survived in confluent underflows
Symphonious with the next that rose
Thus the whole strain being multiplied

And greatened, with it's glorified
Wings shot abroad from side to side
Waved backward (as a wind might wave

A Brocken mist and with as brave
Wild roaring) arch and architrave
Aisle, transept, column, marble wall

Then swelling outward, prodigal
Of aspiration beyond thrall
Soared, and drew up with it the whole

Of this said vision, as a soul
Is raised by a thought and as a scroll
Of bright devices is unrolled

Still upward with a gradual gold
So rose the vision manifold
Angel and organ, and the round

Of spirit's, solemnized and crowned
While the freed clouds of incense wound
Ascending, following in their track

And glimmering faintly like the rack
O' the moon in her own light cast back
And as that solemn dream withdrew

The lady's kiss did fall anew
Cold on the poet's brow as dew
And that same kiss which bound him first

Beyond the senses, now reversed
Its own law and most subtly pierced
His spirit with the sense of things

Sensual and present vanishings
Of glory with Æolian wings
Struck him and passed: the lady's face

Did melt back in the chrysopras
Of the orient morning sky that was
Yet clear of lark and there and so

She melted as a star might do
Still smiling as she melted slow:
Smiling so slow, he seemed to see

Her smile the last thing, gloriously
Beyond her, far as memory
Then he looked round: he was alone

He lay before the breaking sun
As Jacob at the Bethel stone
And thought's entangled skein being wound

He knew the moorland of his swound
And the pale pools that smeared the ground
The far wood-pines like offing ships

The fourth pool's yew anear him drips
World's cruelty attaints his lips
And still he tastes it, bitter still

Through all that glorious possible
He had the sight of present ill
Yet rising calmly up and slowly

With such a cheer as scorneth folly
A mild delightsome melancholy
He journeyed homeward through the wood

And prayed along the solitude
Betwixt the pines, "O God, my God!"
The golden morning's open flowings

Did sway the trees to murmurous bowings
In metric chant of blessed poems
And passing homeward through the wood

He prayed along the solitude
"Thou, Poet-God, art great and good!
"And though we must have, and have had

Right reason to be earthly sad
Thou, Poet-God, art great and glad!"