Shapes, gestures visionary, The manifest angel with fresh lilies came But vanishingly, dumb, Thwarted and bright and wild, As heralding a sin-defiled, Earth-encumbered, blood-begotten, passionate man-child, Who yet should be a trump of mighty call Blown in the gates of evil kings To make them fall; Who yet should be a sword of flame before To beat away the clang of hellish wings; Of high unquenchable desire Trod by my hot soul from the pulp of self, And set upon the shelf In sullen pride The Vineyard-master's tasting to abide - Are these the bringings-in, the doings fine Emptied and overthrown These, for their flavor duly nursed, A pinch of mouldy dust, Sole leavings of the amber-mantling must; But flasking up the liquor dearest won, With watchings and with wrestlings and with grief, Even of these, of these in chief, The stale breath sickens reeking from the shard. Nothing is left. Aye, how much less than naught! What shall be said or thought Of the slack hours and waste imaginings, Known to the froward, that unreckoning heart Whereof this brewage was the precious part, Treasured and set away with furtive boast? O dear and cruel ghost, Be merciful, be just! See, I was yours and I am in the dust. Then look not so, as if all things were well! Take your eyes from me, leave me to my shame, Or else, if gaze they must, Steel them with judgment, darken them with blame; But by the ways of light ineffable You bade me go and I have faltered from, By the low waters moaning out of hell Whereto my feet have come, Lay not on me these intolerable Looks of rejoicing love, of pride, of happy trust! Nothing dismayed? By all I say and all I hint not made O then, stay by me! Let These eyes afflict me, cleanse me, keep me yet, Brave eyes and true! See how the shriveled heart, that long has lain Dead to delight and pain, Stirs, and begins again To utter pleasant life, as if it knew The wintry days were through; As if in its awakening boughs it heard Strong eyes and brave, Inexorable to save! William Vaughn Moody BABY'S SKIES WOULD you know the baby's skies? Mother, keep your eyes from tears, THE MOTHER'S RETURN A MONTH, Sweet little ones, is past your And she to-morrow will return; O blessed tidings! thought of joy! Louder and louder did he shout, With witless hope to bring her near; "Nay, patience! patience, little boy! Your tender mother cannot hear." I told of hills, and far-off towns, No strife disturbs his sister's breast; Her joy is like an instinct, joy Her brother now takes up the note, And answers back his sister's glee: Then, settling into fond discourse, We told o'er all that we had done,- |