Rapture

If thou hast grief     And passion vex the spirit that is in thee--     There was a stony beach     Where the heat flickered and the little waves     Whispered each to each.     Dove-coloured was that stony beach,     And white birds hungering hovered over     The shining waves;     And men had kindled there     A great fierce heap of golden flame--     Spoiled grasses with dead buttercups and pale clover.     The agonising flame     Yearned in its vitals towards the quiet air     And died in a little smoke.     And on the coloured beach the black warm ash     Remained.     Then on that warm ash     Another heap of grasses was outpoured,     And instant came     Another knot of struggling yellow smoke     That burst into new agonies of flame,     Dying into a drift of smoke;     And on the coloured beach the black cold ash     Remained.     Or is thy grief too deep,     Passion too dear, the spirit in thee asleep?--     Twelve deep and sombre, still,     Expectant, hushed,     The miles-long crowd stood--and then listening.     The nervous drums,     The unendurable, low reeds:     Silence--and then the nearing drums     Again, again the thrilling reeds,     And then     (The deep crowd hushed)     Following an almightier King     That rode unseen,     Drew near the tributary magnificence....     Hushed, hushed,     The deep crowd stood, devouring, listening;     But a child on his father's shoulder cried,     "Hurrah, hurrah!"--     Only have thou no fear     Pride, but no fear.