The Beginning.

They tell strange things of the primeval earth,     But things that be are never strange to those     Among them. And we know what it was like,     Many are sure they walked in it; the proof     This, the all gracious, all admired whole     Called life, called world, called thought, was all as one.     Nor yet divided more than that old earth     Among the tribes. Self was not fully come -     Self was asleep, embedded in the whole.     I too dwelt once in a primeval world,     Such as they tell of, all things wonderful;     Voices, ay visions, people grand and tall     Thronged in it, but their talk was overhead     And bore scant meaning, that one wanted not     Whose thought was sight as yet unbound of words,     This kingdom of heaven having entered through     Being a little child.             Such as can see,     Why should they doubt? The childhood of a race.     The childhood of a soul, hath neither doubt     Nor fear. Where all is super-natural     The guileless heart doth feed on it, no more     Afraid than angels are of heaven.         Who saith     Another life, the next one shall not have     Another childhood growing gently thus,     Able to bear the poignant sweetness, take     The rich long awful measure of its peace,     Endure the presence sublime.          I saw     Once in that earth primeval, once - a face,     A little face that yet I dream upon.'     'Of this world was it?'             'Not of this world - no,     In the beginning - for methinks it was     In the beginning but an if you ask     How long ago, time was not then, nor date     For marking. It was always long ago,     E'en from the first recalling of it, long     And long ago.             And I could walk, and went,     Led by the hand through a long mead at morn,     Bathed in a ravishing excess of light.     It throbbed, and as it were fresh fallen from heaven,     Sank deep into the meadow grass. The sun     Gave every blade a bright and a dark side,     Glitter'd on buttercups that topped them, slipped     To soft red puffs, by some called holy-hay.     The wide oaks in their early green stood still     And took delight in it. Brown specks that made     Very sweet noises quivered in the blue;     Then they came down and ran along the brink     Of a long pool, and they were birds.         The pool     Pranked at the edges with pale peppermint,     A rare amassment of veined cuckoo flowers     And flags blue-green was lying below. This all     Was sight it condescended not to words     Till memory kissed the charmed dream.          The mead     Hollowing and heaving, in the hollows fair     With dropping roses fell away to it,     A strange sweet place; upon its further side     Some people gently walking took their way     Up to a wood beyond; and also bells     Sang, floated in the air, hummed - what you will.'     'Then it was Sunday?'         'Sunday was not yet;     It was a holiday, for all the days     Were holy. It was not our day of rest     (The earth for all her rolling asks not rest,     For she was never weary).          It was sweet,     Full of dear leisure and perennial peace,     As very old days when life went easily,     Before mankind had lost the wise, the good     Habit of being happy.          For the pool     A beauteous place it was as might be seen,     That led one down to other meads, and had     Clouds and another sky. I thought to go     Deep down in it, and walk that steep clear slope.     Then she who led me reached the brink, her foot     Staying to talk with one who met her there.     Here were fresh marvels, sailing things whose vans     Floated them on above the flowering flags.     We moved a little onward, paused again,     And here there was a break in these, and here     There came the vision; for I stooped to gaze     So far as my small height would let me - gaze     Into that pool to see the fishes dart,     And in a moment from her under hills     Came forth a little child who lived down there,     Looked up at me and smiled. We could not talk,     But looked and loved each other. I a hand     Held out to her, so she to me, but ah,     She would not come. Her home, her little bed,     Was doubtless under that soft shining thing     The water, and she wanted not to run     Among red sorrel spires, and fill her hand     In the dry warmed grass with cowslip buds.     Awhile our feeding hearts all satisfied,     Took in the blue of one another's eyes,     Two dimpled creatures, rose-lipped innocent.     But when we fain had kissed - O! the end came,     For snatched aloft, held in the nurse's arms,     She parting with her lover I was borne     Far from that little child.         And no one knew     She lived down there, but only I; and none     Sought for her, but I yearned for her and left     Part of myself behind, as the lambs leave     Their wool upon a thorn.'         'And was she seen     Never again, nor known for what she was?'     'Never again, for we did leave anon     The pasture and the pool. I know not where     They lie, and sleep a heaven on earth, but know     From thenceforth yearnings for a lost delight;     On certain days I dream about her still.'