Death And Birth

'Tis the midnight hour; I heard     The Abbey-bell give out the word.     Seldom is the lamp-ray shed     On some dwarfed foot-farer's head     In the deep and narrow street     Lying ditch-like at my feet     Where I stand at lattice high     Downward gazing listlessly     From my house upon the rock,     Peak of earth's foundation-block.         There her windows, every story,     Shine with far-off nebulous glory!     Round her in that luminous cloud     Stars obedient press and crowd,     She the centre of all gazing,     She the sun her planets dazing!     In her eyes' victorious lightning     Some are paling, some are brightening:     Those on which they gracious turn,     Stars combust, all tenfold burn;     Those from which they look away     Listless roam in twilight gray!     When on her my looks I bent     Wonder shook me like a tent,     And my eyes grew dim with sheen,     Wasting light upon its queen!     But though she my eyes might chain,     Rule my ebbing flowing brain,     Truth alone, without, within,     Can the soul's high homage win!         He, I do not doubt, is there     Who unveiled my idol fair!     And I thank him, grateful much,     Though his end was none of such.     He from shapely lips of wit     Let the fire-flakes lightly flit,     Scorching as the snow that fell     On the damned in Dante's hell;     With keen, gentle opposition,     Playful, merciless precision,     Mocked the sweet romance of youth     Balancing on spheric truth;     He on sense's firm set plane     Rolled the unstable ball amain:     With a smile she looked at me,     Stung my soul, and set me free.         Welcome, friend! Bring in your bricks.     Mortar there? No need to mix?     That is well. And picks and hammers?     Verily these are no shammers!--     There, my friend, build up that niche,     That one with the painting rich!         Yes, you're right; it is a show     Picture seldom can bestow;     City palaces and towers,     Terraced gardens, twilight bowers,     Vistas deep through swaying masts,     Pennons flaunting in the blasts:     Build; my room it does not fit;     Brick-glaze is the thing for it!         Yes, a window you may call it;     Not the less up you must wall it:     In that niche the dead world lies;     Bury death, and free mine eyes.         There were youths who held by me,     Said I taught, yet left them free:     Will they do as I said then?     God forbid! As ye are men,     Find the secret--follow and find!     All forget that lies behind;     Me, the schools, yourselves, forsake;     In your souls a silence make;     Hearken till a whisper come,     Listen, follow, and be dumb.         There! 'tis over; I am dead!     Of my life the broken thread     Here I cast out of my hand!--     O my soul, the merry land!     On my heart the sinking vault     Of my ruining past makes halt;     Ages I could sit and moan     For the shining world that's gone!         Haste and pierce the other wall;     Break an opening to the All!     Where? No matter; done is best.     Kind of window? Let that rest:     Who at morning ever lies     Pondering how to ope his eyes!         I bethink me: we must fall     On the thinnest of the wall!     There it must be, in that niche!--     No, the deepest--that in which     Stands the Crucifix.                                              You start?--     Ah, your half-believing heart     Shrinks from that as sacrilege,     Or, at least, upon its edge!     Worse than sacrilege, I say,     Is it to withhold the day     From the brother whom thou knowest     For the God thou never sawest!         Reverently, O marble cold,     Thee in living arms I fold!     Thou who art thyself the way     From the darkness to the day,     Window, thou, to every land,     Wouldst not one dread moment stand     Shutting out the air and sky     And the dayspring from on high!     Brother with the rugged crown,     Gently thus I lift thee down!         Give me pick and hammer; you     Stand aside; the deed I'll do.     Yes, in truth, I have small skill,     But the best thing is the will.         Stroke on stroke! The frescoed plaster     Clashes downward, fast and faster.     Hark, I hear an outer stone     Down the rough rock rumbling thrown!     There's a cranny! there's a crack!     The great sun is at its back!     Lo, a mass is outward flung!     In the universe hath sprung!         See the gold upon the blue!     See the sun come blinding through!     See the far-off mountain shine     In the dazzling light divine!     Prisoned world, thy captive's gone!     Welcome wind, and sky, and sun!