Proves, perchance, but mortal in the minute. While he smites, how can he but remember, So he smote before, in such a peril, When they stood and mocked-" Shall smiting help us?" When they drank and sneered-“ A stroke is easy!" When they wiped their mouths and went their journey, Throwing him for thanks-" But drought was pleasant." Thus old memories mar the actual triumph; Thus the doing savors of disrelish; Thus achievement lacks a gracious somewhat; Egypt's flesh pots-nay, the drought was better." X Oh, the crowd must have emphatic warrant! XI Did he love one face from out the thousands, He would envy yon dumb patient camel, Meant to save his own life in the desert; (Kneeling down to let his breast be opened) XII I shall never, in the years remaining, All the gifts from all the heights, your own, Love! XIII Yet a semblance of resource avails us-- He who blows through bronze, may breathe through silver, Fitly serenade a slumbrous princess. He who writes, may write for once as I do. XIV Love, you saw me gather men and women, Though the fruit of speech be just this sentence: Pray you, look on these my men and women, XV Not but that you know me! Lo, the moon's self! Still we find her face, the thrice-transfigured, Came she, our new crescent of a hair's-breadth. XVI What, there's nothing in the moon noteworthy? All her magic ('t is the old sweet mythos), She would turn a new side to her mortal, Side unseen of herdsman, huntsman, steersman— Blank to Zoroaster on his terrace, Blind to Galileo on his turret, Dumb to Homer, dumb to Keats-him, even! Moses, Aaron, Nadab and Abihu Climbed and saw the very God, the Highest, Like the bodied heaven in his clearness Shone the stone, the sapphire of that paved work, XVII What were seen? None knows, none ever shall know. Only this is sure-the sight were other, Not the moon's same side, born late in Florence, God be thanked, the meanest of his creatures XVIII This I say of me, but think of you, Love! This to you yourself my moon of poets! Ah, but that's the world's side, there's the wonder, Out of my own self, I dare to phrase it. XIX Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, (AFTER HE HAS BEEN EXTEMPORIZING UPON THE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT OF HIS INVENTION) WOULD that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, Claiming each slave of the sound, at a touch, as when Solomon willed Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, Man, brute, reptile, fly,-alien of end and of aim, Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed, Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name, And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princess he loved! Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine, This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise! Ah, one and all, how they helped, would dispart now and now combine, Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise! And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell, Burrow awhile and build, broad on the roots of things, Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well, Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was, Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass, Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest: |