The Woman I behold, whose vision seek All eyes and know not; t'ward whom climb The steps o' the world, and beats all wing of rhyme, And knows not; 'twixt the sun and moon Her inexpressible front enstarred Tempers the wrangling spheres to tune; Their divergent harmonies Concluded in the concord of her eyes, And vestal dances of her glad regard.

I see, which fretteth with surmise Much heads grown unsagacious-grey, The slow aim of wise-hearted Time, Which folded cycles within cycles cloak: We pa.s.s, we pa.s.s, we pa.s.s; this does not pa.s.s away, But holds the furrowing earth still harnessed to its yoke.

The stars still write their golden purposes On heaven's high palimpsest, and no man sees, Nor any therein Daniel; I do hear From the revolving year A voice which cries: 'All dies; Lo, how all dies! O seer, And all things too arise: All dies, and all is born; But each resurgent morn, behold, more near the Perfect Morn.'

Firm is the man, and set beyond the cast Of Fortune's game, and the iniquitous hour, Whose falcon soul sits fast, And not intends her high sagacious tour Or ere the quarry sighted; who looks past To slow much sweet from little instant sour, And in the first does always see the last.

ANY SAINT.

His shoulder did I hold Too high that I, o'erbold Weak one, Should lean thereon.

But He a little hath Declined His stately path And my Feet set more high;

That the slack arm may reach His shoulder, and faint speech Stir His unwithering hair.

And bolder now and bolder I lean upon that shoulder So dear He is and near:

And with His aureole The tresses of my soul Are blent In wished content.

Yes, this too gentle Lover Hath flattering words to move her To pride By His sweet side.

Ah, Love! somewhat let be!

Lest my humility Grow weak When thou dost speak!

Rebate thy tender suit, Lest to herself impute Some worth Thy bride of earth!

A maid too easily Conceits herself to be Those things Her lover sings;

And being straitly wooed, Believes herself the Good And Fair He seeks in her.

Turn something of Thy look, And fear me with rebuke, That I May timorously

Take tremors in Thy arms, And with contriv-ed charms Allure A love unsure.

Not to me, not to me, Builded so flawfully, O G.o.d, Thy humbling laud!

Not to this man, but Man,-- Universe in a span; Point Of the spheres conjoint;

In whom eternally Thou, Light, dost focus Thee!-- Didst pave The way o' the wave;

Rivet with stars the Heaven, For causeways to Thy driven Car In its coming far

Unto him, only him; In Thy deific whim Didst bound Thy works' great round

In this small ring of flesh; The sky's gold-knotted mesh Thy wrist Did only twist

To take him in that net.-- Man! swinging-wicket set Between The Unseen and Seen;

Lo, G.o.d's two worlds immense, Of spirit and of sense, Wed In this narrow bed;

Yea, and the midge's hymn Answers the seraphim Athwart Thy body's court!

Great arm-fellow of G.o.d!

To the ancestral clod Kin, And to cherubin;

Bread predilectedly O' the worm and Deity!

Hark, O G.o.d's clay-sealed Ark,

To praise that fits thee, clear To the ear within the ear, But dense To clay-sealed sense.

All the Omnific made When in a word he said, (Mystery!) He uttered THEE;

Thee His great utterance bore, O secret metaphor Of what Thou dream'st no jot!

Cosmic metonymy!

Weak world-unshuttering key!

One Seal of Solomon!

Trope that itself not scans Its huge significance, Which tries Cherubic eyes.

Primer where the angels all G.o.d's grammar spell in small, Nor spell The highest too well.

Point for the great descants Of starry disputants; Equation Of creation.

Thou meaning, couldst thou see, Of all which dafteth thee; So plain, It mocks thy pain;

Stone of the Law indeed, Thine own self couldst thou read; Thy bliss Within thee is.

Compost of Heaven and mire, Slow foot and swift desire!

Lo, To have Yes, choose No;

Gird, and thou shalt unbind; Seek not, and thou shalt find; To eat, Deny thy meat;

And thou shalt be fulfilled With all sweet things unwilled: So best G.o.d loves to jest

With children small--a freak Of heavenly hide-and-seek Fit For thy wayward wit,

Who art thyself a thing Of whim and wavering; Free When His wings pen thee;

Sole fully blest, to feel G.o.d whistle thee at heel; Drunk up As a dew-drop,

When He bends down, sun-wise, Intemperable eyes; Most proud, When utterly bowed.

To feel thyself and be His dear nonent.i.ty-- Caught Beyond human thought

In the thunder-spout of Him, Until thy being dim, And be Dead deathlessly.

Stoop, stoop; for thou dost fear The nettle's wrathful spear, So slight Art thou of might!