Hearken, oh hearken! let your souls behind you Turn, gently moved! Our voices feel along the Dread to find you, O lost, beloved!
Through the thick-shielded and strong-marshalled angels, They press and pierce: Our requiems follow fast on our evangels,— Voice throbs in verse.
We are but orphaned spirits left in Eden A time ago: God gave us golden cups, and we were bidden To feed you so.
But now our right hand hath no cup remaining, No work to do, The mystic hydromel is spilt, and staining The whole earth through.
Most ineradicable stains, for showing ( Not interfused! ) That brighter colours were the world's forgoing, Than shall be used.
Hearken, oh hearken! ye shall hearken surely For years and years, The noise beside you, dripping coldly, purely, Of spirits’ tears.
The yearning to a beautiful denied you Shall strain your powers; Ideal sweetnesses shall overglide you, Resumed from ours.
In all your music, our pathetic minor Your ears shall cross; And all good gifts shall mind you of diviner, With sense of loss.
We shall be near you in your poet-languors And wild extremes, What time ye vex the desert with vain angers, Or mock with dreams.
And when upon you, weary after roaming, Death's seal is put, By the foregone ye shall discern the coming, Through eyelids shut.
Spirits of the Trees. Hark! the Eden trees are stirring, Soft and solemn in your hearing! Oak and linden, palm and fir,
Tamarisk and juniper, Each still throbbing in vibration Since that crowning of creation When the God-breath spake abroad,
Let us make man like to God! And the pine stood quivering As the awful word went by, Like a vibrant music-string
Stretched from mountain-peak to sky; And the platan did expand Slow and gradual, branch and head; And the cedar's strong black shade
Fluttered brokenly and grand: Grove and wood were swept aslant In emotion jubilant. Voice of the same, but softer.
Which divine impulsion cleaves In dim movements to the leaves Dropt and lifted, dropt and lifted, In the sunlight greenly sifted,—
In the sunlight and the moonlight Greenly sifted through the trees. Ever wave the Eden trees In the nightlight and the noonlight,
With a ruffling of green branches Shaded off to resonances, Never stirred by rain or breeze. Fare ye well, farewell!
The sylvan sounds, no longer audible, Expire at Eden's door. Each footstep of your treading Treads out some murmur which ye heard before.
Farewell! the trees of Eden Ye shall hear nevermore. River Spirits. Hark! the flow of the four rivers —
Hark the flow! How the silence round you shivers, While our voices through it go, Cold and clear.
A softer Voice. Think a little, while ye hear, Of the banks Where the willows and the deer
Crowd in intermingled ranks, As if all would drink at once Where the living water runs!— Of the fishes’ golden edges
Flashing in and out the sedges; Of the swans on silver thrones, Floating down the winding streams With impassive eyes turned shoreward
And a chant of undertones,— And the lotos leaning forward To help them into dreams! Fare ye well, farewell!
The river-sounds, no longer audible, Expire at Eden's door. Each footstep of your treading Treads out some murmur which ye heard before.
Farewell! the streams of Eden Ye shall hear nevermore. Bird Spirit. I am the nearest nightingale
That singeth in Eden after you; And I am singing loud and true, And sweet,— I do not fail. I sit upon a cypress bough,
Close to the gate, and I fling my song Over the gate and through the mail Of the warden angels marshalled strong,— Over the gate and after you.
And the warden angels let it pass, Because the poor brown bird, alas, Sings in the garden, sweet and true. And I build my song of high pure notes,
Note over note, height over height, Till I strike the arch of the Infinite, And I bridge abysmal agonies With strong, clear calms of harmonies,—
And something abides, and something floats, In the song which I sing after you. Fare ye well, farewell! The creature-sounds, no longer audible,
Expire at Eden's door. Each footstep of your treading Treads out some cadence which ye heard before. Farewell! the birds of Eden,
Ye shall hear nevermore. Flower Spirits. We linger, we linger, The last of the throng,
Like the tones of a singer Who loves his own song. We are spirit-aromas Of blossom and bloom.
We call your thoughts home,— as Ye breathe our perfume,— To the amaranth's splendour Afire on the slopes;
To the lily-bells tender, And grey heliotropes; To the poppy-plains keeping Such dream-breath and blee
That the angels there stepping Grew whiter to see: To the nook, set with moly, Ye jested one day in,
Till your smile waxed too holy And left your lips praying: To the rose in the bower-place, That dripped o'er you sleeping;
To the asphodel flower-place, Ye walked ankle-deep in. We pluck at your raiment, We stroke down your hair,
We faint in our lament And pine into air. Fare ye well, farewell! The Eden scents, no longer sensible,
Expire at Eden's door. Each footstep of your treading Treads out some fragrance which ye knew before. Farewell! the flowers of Eden,
Ye shall smell nevermore.
Cookies on Poetry Cove