Collected Works (Vol. I)

54 SONGS OF THE SPIRIT Should rise and utter secrets of the tomb, And from hell’s womb Or heaven’s breast bring all the load of fears, Toils of long years, Sorrows of life and agonies of death, Hard caught-up breath, The labouring hands of love, the cheeks of shame, The gloomy flame Of lust, the cruel torment of desire More than hell fire, And bid them fade, as if the bryony Let her flower die, And banished them through space, as if a star Dropped through the far Vault of the sky, and, as a lamp extinct With blood-red tinct, Went out. So lonely in mysterious night A wild, strange light Flickers around the sacred head of man, And bids him scan The scroll of heaven, and see if there be not, Black with no. blot Of cloud, but golden lettered on the blue That mothers dew, This message of good hope, good trust, good fate And good estate : ‘* Work on, hope ever, let your faith be built Of gold ungilt ; Your love exceed the starry vault for height, The heaven for might ; Your faith wax firmer than a ship at sleep On the grey deep, Anchored in some most certain anchorage From ocean’s rage ; Your patience stand when mountains shake and quail Before the gale Of God's great tribulation, Thou canst endure! And work, work ever, sleep not, gird thy head With varlands red Of blood from swollen veins forced in bitter toil To win some spoil Make thee sure Of knowledge from the caverns of the deep ! So shall the steep Pathways of heaven gleam with loftier fires Than earth’s desires. So shalt thou conquer Space, and lastly climb The walls of Time, And by the golden path the great have trod Reach up to God!” DAZEDALUS. THE scorpion kisses and the stings of sin Cling hard within The heart whose fibres, like a slender vine, Earth’s hopes entwine, And all the furies of the air caress The sorceress Whose bosom beats in unison with shame, A flower of flame Whose root most secretly made fast in hell Is watered by the seraphim that fell. The heart wherein is lit the sacred fire Of high desire, Burnt clean from all untruth and sacrilege, Her wings may fledge, And fly a little in the broad sweet air, Till unaware The Spirit of Jehovah, like a dove On wings of love, Breathe the sweet kiss, a sacrament un- told, And clothe the heart’s desire with flames of gold. No rash Icarian wing this passion plies, But sanctifes, As ifa censer (that a cherub swings) Blossomed with wings And floated up, an incense-breathing bird, With songs half heard