All forms of all faces, All works of all hands Of time-stricken lands, All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me as sands. Though sore be my burden Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or deathworms below. These too have their part in me, As I too in these ; Such fire is at heart in me, Such sap is this tree's, Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands and of seas. In the spring-color'd hours Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out from my spirit as rays. And the sound of them springing Were as warmth and sweet singing And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my fruits. I bid you but be; I have need not of prayer; I have need of you free As your mouths of mine air; That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits of me fair. More fair than strange fruit is In me only the root is That blooms in your boughs; Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your vows. In the darkening and whitening With dayspring and lightning For lamp and for sword, God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the Lord. The rocks are left when he wastes the plain. Not a flower to be press'd of the foot that falls not; As the heart of a dead man the seedplots are dry; From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not, Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. Over the meadows that blossom and wither The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. Only the wind here hovers and revels The wind that wanders, the weeds wind- They are loveless now as the grass above shaken, These remain. them Or the wave. |