Classic Poem

To pass from life aside,
And deep on one design,
Less stated than implied
By Nature's heart, incline;
And passing through, to use
A language long unheard:
These make it vain to muse
On tender glance or word—
Ask nursing heart of song
Where wingèd thoughts may sleep;
Such nests of love belong
To dreams less grave and deep.

Shall lover, lacing arms
With maid in moonlight, praise
These poems for their charms,
To him attribute bays
Who holds her virgin grace
Can none in truth discern,
Nor clasp with close embrace—
Howe'er his ardours burn.
Yea, though she yielding lies,
She from his grasp has fled
'Midst secret mysteries
Of body and bridal bed.
Will she that heart's spouse greet
By terms to mine akin,
Who does not dream how sweet
The prize she hides within?

On matron's household ground
What ardours could I stir
By mystic songs profound,
Too sad and strange for her?
She reigns how calm, how safe,
A star above the wild,
A moon, where waters chafe,
Which mellows and makes mild.
Her microcosmos, wrought
By her own hand, she leads,
Quick for the day's import,
Strong for the moment's needs;
But life's eternal sense
Ranks in her sober head
Of lesser consequence
Than the guest's well-air'd bed.

What boots mine art's device
To men on 'change, whose fate
Hangs on a closing price,
A rise, a discount-rate?
The social webs enmesh,
Those webs constrain and drive;
And Toil all human flesh
Scourges, to keep alive.
Why squander time and breath?
Who can, that wills, take heed:
Life is all whirl, and death,
If that be rest, God speed!
E'en thou, O priest, content
In thy peculiar school
To class each sacrament
By number, name and rule!—
Is word of mine endow'd
With skill to catch thine ear?
Are seven in Rome allow'd
And two in England here?

But if, accepting those,
From Nature's teeming store
My secret song disclose
Some saving thousands more;
Nor yet of both kinds these
Exclusively, or one,
But of all stars, all seas,
Each element, each sun;
In all a gate flung back
For grace abounding still,
Floodgate and torrent's track,
Where all partake at will—
How sound my tidings then?
Stars speak to stars, but thou,
O priest-voice, leading men,
And this voice mingle—how?
All things on sea and land
Speak to my soul, and each
Blythe voice I understand,
Answer in flowing speech.
Quantities, measures, rhymes,
Harp-string and organ note
Surround me at all times;
Stars that in ether float,
Sun in his flaming course,
All the world's lights, and all
Darkness and tempest's force,
Thrill me with frequent call.

Bear I no tidings true
Which all might hear and learn,
Plain Nature, simple view
And little child discern?
Soul, high encompass'd, tell—
Surely the world can know!—
How the small fonts as well
As great with mercy flow;
Grace to the humblest field
Of daily life is lent,
For each is sign'd and seal'd
With marks of sacrament.
In Wall Street dare we say
An office God disowns?
Why, angels pass that way,
As by the masters' thrones!
The keen winds sweeping there
Do proud hosannas sing—
Yea, even as in the fair,
White City of the King.

But ah! those signs august,
For ever far and nigh
Through all life's fume and dust,
The sacrament of high,
Aspiring human love,
Spotless and awful, raised
To one White Throne above,
There poised—undimm'd, undazed.
And ah! most blessed feast
Of wonder, to behold
The sacraments no priest
Has ever bought or sold,
Nor saints alone dispense.
Ah! utterly to feel
With fulness deep, intense—
Whatever veils conceal—
Beyond all type and veil,
Deep within deep, far down,
Yet not beyond all hail,
The Vision and the Crown.

Hence to myself I speak,
But not with selfish mind;
Yea, rather do I seek
Some brothers of my kind,
Who shall discern the drift
Of this my mystic tongue;
For them my voice I lift,
To them my songs are sung.
They know these measures roll
Set to a sacred rite,
Perform'd within the soul
'Midst incense, pomp and light.
I know what stars have shone
To soothe what seas unblest;
I fix my faith upon
The Vision, and I rest.