You have been good to me….
You have not made yourself too dear
to juggle with.
Over the night like an ecstasy—
I feel your coils tightening…
And the world’s lessening breath.
I watched a star fall like a great pearl into the sea,
Till my ego expanding encompassed sea and star,
Containing both as in a trembling cup.
Oh, God did cunningly, there at Babel -
Not mere tongues dividing, but soul from soul,
So that never again should men be able
To fashion one infinite, towering whole.
Out of fiery contacts…
Rushing auras of steel
Touching and whirled apart…
Out of the charged phallases
Of iron leaping
Female and male,
Complete, indivisible, one,
Fused into light.
Old plant of Asia -
Holding earth's leaping sap
In every stem and shoot
That lopped off, sprouts again -
Why should you seek a plateau walled about,
Whose garden is the world?
Spires of Grace Church,
For you the workers of the world
Travailed with the mountains…
Aborting their own dreams
Till the dream of you arose -
Beautiful, swaddled in stone -
Scorning their hands.
An Old Workman
With spine askew
And body shrunken into half its space…
Well-used as some cracked paving-stone…
Bearing on his grimed and pitted front
A stamp… as of innumerable feet.
I love those spirits
That men stand off and point at,
Or shudder and hood up their souls -
Those ruined ones,
Where Liberty has lodged an hour
And passed like flame,
Bursting asunder the too small house.
How should they appraise you, who walk up close to you as to a mountain, each proclaiming his own eyeful against the other's eyeful.
Only time standing well off shall measure your circumference and height.