NO man hath dared to write this thing as yet,
And yet I know, how that the souls of all men great
At times pass through us,
And we are melted into them, and are not
Save reflexions of their souls.
Thus am I Dante for a space and am
One François Villon, ballad-lord and thief
Or am such holy ones I may not write,
Lest blasphemy be writ against my name;
This for an instant and the flame is gone.
’Tis as in midmost us there glows a sphere
Translucent, molten gold, that is the “I”
And into this some form projects itself:
Christus, or John, or eke the Florentine;
And as the clear space is not if a form’s
Imposed thereon,
So cease we from all being for the time,
And these, the Masters of the Soul, live on.
PARACELSUS IN EXCELSIS
“BEING no longer human, why should I
Pretend humanity or don the frail attire?
Men have I known and men, but never one
Was grown so free an essence, or become
So simply element as what I am.
The mist goes from the mirror and I see!
Turmoil grown visible beneath our peace,
And we that are grown formless rise above,
Fluids intangible that have been men,
We seem as statues round whose high risen base
Some overflowing river is run mad;
In us alone the element of calm!
A SONG OF THE VIRGIN MOTHER
In “Los Pastores de Belen.”
From the Spanish of Lope de Vega.
AS ye go through these palm-trees,
O holy angels;
Sith sleepeth my child here
Still ye the branches.
O Bethlehem palm-trees
That move to the anger
Of winds in their fury,
Tempestuous voices,
Make ye no clamour,
Run ye less swiftly,
Sith sleepeth the child here
Still ye your branches.
He the divine child
Is here a-wearied
Of weeping the earth-pain,
Here for his rest would he
Only a little while,
Sith sleepeth this child here
Stay ye the branches.
Cold be the fierce winds,
Treacherous round him.
Ye see that I have not
Wherewith to guard him,
O angels, divine ones
That pass us a-flying,
Sith sleepeth my child here
Stay ye the branches.
Ya veis que no tengo
Con que guardarlo,
O angeles santos
Que vais volando
Por que duerme mi niño
Tened los ramos!
SONG
LOVE thou thy dream
All base love scorning,
Love thou the wind
And here take warning
That dreams alone can truly be,
For ’tis in dream I come to thee.