Classic Poem

Let us go down, the long dead night is done,
the dolorous incantation has been wrought;
soul, let us go, the saving word is won,
down from the tower of our hermetic thought.

See — for the wonder glimmers in the gates,
eager to burst the soundless bars and grace
the wistful earth, that still in blindness waits,
perfect with suffering for her Lord's embrace.

The spaces of the waters of the dawn
are spiritual with our transfigured gaze;
the intenser heights of morning, far withdrawn,
expect our dream to shine along their ways.

But speak the word! and o'er the adoring whole
straight from the marge of the perfected hours
sudden, large music through the vast, shall roll
a sea of light foaming with seedless flowers;

lilies that form on some ethereal wave,
still generate of the most ancient blue,
burst roses, rootless, knowing not the grave
nor yet the charnel thought by which they grew.

So we shall move at last, untortured powers,
and in white silence hear, as souls unborn,
our hymn given back by the eternal hours
singing together in the eternal morn.