Mirrors Of Life And Death.

The mystery of Life, the mystery     Of Death, I see     Darkly as in a glass;     Their shadows pass,     And talk with me.     As the flush of a Morning Sky,     As a Morning Sky colorless -     Each yields its measure of light     To a wet world or a dry;     Each fares through day to night     With equal pace,     And then each one     Is done.     As the Sun with glory and grace     In his face,     Benignantly hot,     Graciously radiant and keen,     Ready to rise and to run, -     Not without spot,     Not even the Sun.     As the Moon     On the wax, on the wane,     With night for her noon;     Vanishing soon,     To appear again.     As Roses that droop     Half warm, half chill, in the languid May,     And breathe out a scent     Sweet and faint;     Till the wind gives one swoop     To scatter their beauty away.     As Lilies a multitude,     One dipping, one rising, one sinking,     On rippling waters, clear blue     And pure for their drinking;     One new dead, and one opened anew,     And all good.     As a cankered pale Flower,     With death for a dower,     Each hour of its life half dead;     With death for a crown     Weighing down     Its head.     As an Eagle, half strength and half grace,     Most potent to face     Unwinking the splendor of light;     Harrying the East and the West,     Soaring aloft from our sight;     Yet one day or one night dropped to rest,     On the low common earth     Of his birth.     As a Dove,     Not alone,     In a world of her own     Full of fluttering soft noises     And tender sweet voices     Of love.     As a Mouse     Keeping house     In the fork of a tree,     With nuts in a crevice,     And an acorn or two;     What cares he     For blossoming boughs,     Or the song-singing bevies     Of birds in their glee,     Scarlet, or golden, or blue?     As a Mole grubbing underground;     When it comes to the light     It grubs its way back again,     Feeling no bias of fur     To hamper it in its stir,     Scant of pleasure and pain,     Sinking itself out of sight     Without sound.     As Waters that drop and drop,     Weariness without end,     That drop and never stop,     Wear that nothing can mend,     Till one day they drop -     Stop -     And there's an end,     And matters mend.     As Trees, beneath whose skin     We mark not the sap begin     To swell and rise,     Till the whole bursts out in green:     We mark the falling leaves     When the wide world grieves     And sighs.     As a Forest on fire,     Where maddened creatures desire     Wet mud or wings     Beyond all those things     Which could assuage desire     On this side the flaming fire.     As Wind with a sob and sigh     To which there comes no reply     But a rustle and shiver     From rushes of the river;     As Wind with a desolate moan,     Moaning on alone.     As a Desert all sand,     Blank, neither water nor land     For solace, or dwelling, or culture,     Where the storms and the wild creatures howl;     Given over to lion and vulture,     To ostrich, and jackal, and owl:     Yet somewhere an oasis lies;     There waters arise     To nourish one seedling of balm,     Perhaps, or one palm.     As the Sea,     Murmuring, shifting, swaying;     One time sunnily playing,     One time wrecking and slaying;     In whichever mood it be,     Worst or best,     Never at rest.     As still Waters and deep,     As shallow Waters that brawl,     As rapid Waters that leap     To their fall.     As Music, as Color, as Shape,     Keys of rapture and pain     Turning in vain     In a lock which turns not again,     While breaths and moments escape.     As Spring, all bloom and desire;     As Summer, all gift and fire;     As Autumn, a dying glow;     As Winter, with nought to show:     Winter which lays its dead all out of sight,     All clothed in white,     All waiting for the long-awaited light.