Tiresias

PART I     It is an hour before the hour of dawn.     Set in mine hand my staff and leave me here     Outside the hollow house that blind men fear,     More blind than I who live on life withdrawn     And feel on eyes that see not but foresee     The shadow of death which clothes Antigone.     Here lay her living body that here lies     Dead, if man living know what thing is death,     If life be all made up of blood and breath,     And no sense be save as of ears and eyes.     But heart there is not, tongue there is not found,     To think or sing what verge hath life or bound.     In the beginning when the powers that made     The young child man a little loved him, seeing     His joy of life and fair face of his being,     And bland and laughing with the man-child played,     As friends they saw on our divine one day     King Cadmus take to queen Harmonia.     The strength of soul that builds up as with hands     Walls spiritual and towers and towns of thought     Which only fate, not force, can bring to nought,     Took then to wife the light of all mens lands,     Wars child and loves, most sweet and wise and strong,     Order of things and rule and guiding song.     It was long since: yea, even the sun that saw     Remembers hardly what was, nor how long.     And now the wise heart of the worldly song     Is perished, and the holy hand of law     Can set no tune on time, nor help again     The power of thought to build up life for men.     Yea, surely are they now transformed or dead,     And sleep below this world, where no sun warms,     Or move about it now in formless forms     Incognizable, and all their lordship fled;     And where they stood up singing crawl and hiss,     With fangs that kill behind their lips that kiss.     Yet though her marriage-garment, seeming fair,     Was dyed in sin and woven of jealousy     To turn their seed to poison, time shall see     The gods reissue from them, and repair     Their broken stamp of godhead, and again     Thought and wise love sing words of law to men.     I, Tiresias the prophet, seeing in Thebes     Much evil, and the misery of mens hands     Who sow with fruitless wheat the stones and sands,     With fruitful thorns the fallows and warm glebes,     Bade their hands hold lest worse hap came to pass;     But which of you had heed of Tiresias?     I am as Times self in mine own wearied mind,     Whom the strong heavy-footed years have led     From night to night and dead men unto dead,     And from the blind hope to the memory blind;     For each mans life is woven, as Times life is,     Of blind young hopes and old blind memories.     I am a soul outside of death and birth.     I see before me and afterward I see,     O child, O corpse, the live dead face of thee,     Whose life and death are one thing upon earth     Where day kills night and night again kills day     And dies; but where is that Harmonia?     O all-beholden light not seen of me,     Air, and warm winds that under the suns eye     Stretch your strong wings at morning; and thou, sky,     Whose hollow circle engirdling earth and sea     All night the set stars limit, and all day     The moving sun remeasures; ye, I say,     Ye heights of hills, and thou Dircean spring     Inviolable, and ye towers that saw cast down     Seven kings keen-sighted toward your seven-faced town     And quenched the red seed of one sightless king;     And thou, for death less dreadful than for birth,     Whose wild leaves hide the horror of the earth,     O mountain whereon gods made chase of kings,     Cithron, thou that sawest on Pentheus dead     Fangs of a mother fasten and wax red     And satiate with a son thy swollen springs,     And heardst her cry fright all thine eyries nests     Who gave death suck at sanguine-suckling breasts;     Yea, and a grief more grievous, without name,     A curse too grievous for the name of grief,     Thou sawest, and heardst the rumour scare belief     Even unto death and madness, when the flame     Was lit whose ashes dropped about the pyre     That of two brethren made one sundering fire;     O bitter nurse, that on thine hard bare knees     Reardst for his fate the bloody-footed child     Whose hands should be more bloodily defiled     And the old blind feet walk wearier ways than these,     Whose seed, brought forth in darkness unto doom,     Should break as fire out of his mothers womb;     I bear you witness as ye bear to me,     Time, day, night, sun, stars, life, death, air, sea, earth,     And ye that round the human house of birth     Watch with veiled heads and weaponed hands, and see     Good things and evil, strengthless yet and dumb,     Sit in the clouds with cloudlike hours to come;     Ye forces without form and viewless powers     That have the keys of all our years in hold,     That prophesy too late with tongues of gold,     In a strange speech whose words are perished hours,     I witness to you what good things ye give     As ye to me what evil while I live.     What should I do to blame you, what to praise,     For floral hours and hours funereal?     What should I do to curse or bless at all     For winter-woven or summer-coloured days?     Curse he that will and bless you whoso can,     I have no common part in you with man.     I hear a springing water, whose quick sound     Makes softer the soft sunless patient air,     And the winds hand is laid on my thin hair     Light as a lovers, and the grasses round     Have odours in them of green bloom and rain     Sweet as the kiss wherewith sleep kisses pain.     I hear the low sound of the spring of time     Still beating as the low live throb of blood,     And where its waters gather head and flood     I hear change moving on them, and the chime     Across them of reverberate wings of hours     Sounding, and feel the future air of flowers.     The wind of change is soft as snow, and sweet     The sense thereof as roses in the sun,     The faint wind springing with the springs that run,     The dim sweet smell of flowering hopes, and heat     Of unbeholden sunrise; yet how long     I know not, till the morning put forth song.     I prophesy of life, who live with death;     Of joy, being sad; of sunlight, who am blind;     Of man, whose ways are alien from mankind     And his lips are not parted with mans breath;     I am a word out of the speechless years,     The tongue of time, that no man sleeps who hears.     I stand a shadow across the door of doom,     Athwart the lintel of deaths house, and wait;     Nor quick nor dead, nor flexible by fate,     Nor quite of earth nor wholly of the tomb;     A voice, a vision, light as fire or air,     Driven between days that shall be and that were.     I prophesy, with feet upon a grave,     Of death cast out and life devouring death     As flame doth wood and stubble with a breath;     Of freedom, though all manhood were one slave;     Of truth, though all the world were liar; of love,     That time nor hate can raze the witness of.     Life that was given for loves sake and his laws     Their powers have no more power on; they divide     Spoils wrung from lust or wrath of man or pride,     And keen oblivion without pity or pause     Sets them on fire and scatters them on air     Like ashes shaken from a suppliants hair.     But life they lay no hand on; life once given     No force of theirs hath competence to take;     Life that was given for some divine things sake,     To mix the bitterness of earth with heaven,     Light with mans night, and music with his breath,     Dies not, but makes its living food of death.     I have seen this, who live where men are not,     In the high starless air of fruitful night     On that serenest and obscurest height     Where dead and unborn things are one in thought     And whence the live unconquerable springs     Feed full of force the torrents of new things.     I have seen this, who saw long since, being man,     As now I know not if indeed I be,     The fair bare body of Wisdom, good to see     And evil, whence my light and night began;     Light on the goal and darkness on the way,     Light all through night and darkness all through day.     Mother, that by that Pegasean spring 1     Didst fold round in thine arms thy blinded son,     Weeping O holiest, what thing hast thou done,     What, to my child? woes me that see the thing!     Is this thy love to me-ward, and hereof     Must I take sample how the gods can love?     O child, thou hast seen indeed, poor child of mine,     The breasts and flanks of Pallas bare in sight,     But never shalt see more the dear suns light;     O Helicon, how great a pay is thine     For some poor antelopes and wild-deer dead,     My childs eyes hast thou taken in their stead     Mother, thou knewest not what she had to give,     Thy goddess, though then angered, for mine eyes;     Fame and foreknowledge, and to be most wise,     And centuries of high-thoughted life to live,     And in mine hand this guiding staff to be     As eyesight to the feet of men that see.     Perchance I shall not die at all, nor pass     The general door and lintel of men dead;     Yet even the very tongue of wisdom said     What grace should come with death to Tiresias,     What special honour that Gods hand accord     Who gathers all mens nations as their lord.     And sometimes when the secret eye of thought     Is changed with obscuration, and the sense     Aches with long pain of hollow prescience,     And fiery foresight with foresuffering bought     Seems even to infect my spirit and consume,     Hunger and thirst come on me for the tomb.     I could be fain to drink my death and sleep,     And no more wrapped about with bitter dreams     Talk with the stars and with the winds and streams     And with the inevitable years, and weep;     For how should he who communes with the years     Be sometime not a living spring of tears?     O child, that guided of thine only will     Didst set thy maiden foot against the gate     To strike it open ere thine hour of fate,     Antigone, men say not thou didst ill,     For loves sake and the reverence of his awe     Divinely dying, slain by mortal law;     For love is awful as immortal death.     And through thee surely hath thy brother won     Rest, out of sight of our world-weary sun,     And in the dead land where ye ghosts draw breath     A royal place and honour; so wast thou     Happy, though earth have hold of thee too now.     So hast thou life and name inviolable     And joy it may be, sacred and severe,     Joy secret-souled beyond all hope or fear,     A monumental joy wherein to dwell     Secluse and silent, a selected state,     Serene possession of thy proper fate.     Thou art not dead as these are dead who live     Full of blind years, a sorrow-shaken kind,     Nor as these are am I the prophet blind;     They have not life that have not heart to give     Life, nor have eyesight who lack heart to see     When to be not is better than to be.     O ye whom time but bears with for a span,     How long will ye be blind and dead, how long     Make your own souls part of your own souls wrong?     Son of the word of the most high gods, man,     Why wilt thou make thine hour of light and breath     Emptier of all but shame than very death?     Fool, wilt thou live for ever? though thou care     With all thine heart for life to keep it fast,     Shall not thine hand forego it at the last?     Lo, thy sure hour shall take thee by the hair     Sleeping, or when thou knowest not, or wouldst fly;     And as men died much mightier shalt thou die.     Yea, they are dead, men much more worth than thou;     The savour of heroic lives that were,     Is it not mixed into thy common air?     The sense of them is shed about thee now:     Feel not thy brows a wind blowing from far?     Aches not thy forehead with a future star?     The light that thou mayst make out of thy name     Is in the wind of this same hour that drives,     Blown within reach but once of all mens lives;     And he that puts forth hand upon the flame     Shall have it for a garland on his head     To sign him for a king among the dead.     But these men that the lessening years behold,     Who sit the most part without flame or crown,     And brawl and sleep and wear their life-days down     With joys and griefs ignobler than of old,     And care not if the better day shall be     Are these or art thou dead, Antigone? PART II     As when one wakes out of a waning dream     And sees with instant eyes the naked thought     Whereof the vision as a web was wrought,     I saw beneath a heaven of cloud and gleam,     Ere yet the heart of the young sun waxed brave,     One like a prophet standing by a grave.     In the hoar heaven was hardly beam or breath,     And all the coloured hills and fields were grey,     And the wind wandered seeking for the day,     And wailed as though he had found her done to death     And this grey hour had built to bury her     The hollow twilight for a sepulchre.     But in my soul I saw as in a glass     A pale and living body full of grace     There lying, and over it the prophets face     Fixed; and the face was not of Tiresias,     For such a starry fire was in his eyes     As though their light it was that made the skies.     Such eyes should Gods have been when very love     Looked forth of them and set the sun aflame,     And such his lips that called the light by name     And bade the morning forth at sound thereof;     His face was sad and masterful as fate,     And like a stars his look compassionate.     Like a stars gazed on of sad eyes so long     It seems to yearn with pity, and all its fire     As a mans heart to tremble with desire     And heave as though the light would bring forth song;     Yet from his face flashed lightning on the land,     And like the thunder-bearers was his hand.     The steepness of strange stairs had tired his feet,     And his lips yet seemed sick of that salt bread     Wherewith the lips of banishment are fed;     But nothing was there in the world so sweet     As the most bitter love, like Gods own grace,     Wherewith he gazed on that fair buried face.     Grief and glad pride and passion and sharp shame,     Wrath and remembrance, faith and hope and hate     And pitiless pity of days degenerate,     Were in his eyes as an incorporate flame     That burned about her, and the heart thereof     And central flower was very fire of love.     But all about her grave wherein she slept     Were noises of the wild wind-footed years     Whose footprints flying were full of blood and tears,     Shrieks as of Maenads on their hills that leapt     And yelled as beasts of ravin, and their meat     Was the rent flesh of their own sons to eat:     And fiery shadows passing with strange cries,     And Sphinx-like shapes about the ruined lands,     And the red reek of parricidal hands     And intermixture of incestuous eyes,     And light as of that self-divided flame     Which made an end of the Cadmean name.     And I beheld again, and lo the grave,     And the bright body laid therein as dead,     And the same shadow across another head     That bowed down silent on that sleeping slave     Who was the lady of empire from her birth     And light of all the kingdoms of the earth.     Within the compass of the watchers hand     All strengths of other men and divers powers     Were held at ease and gathered up as flowers;     His heart was as the heart of his whole land,     And at his feet as natural servants lay     Twilight and dawn and night and labouring day.     He was most awful of the sons of God.     Even now men seeing seemed at his lips to see     The trumpet of the judgment that should be,     And in his right hand terror for a rod,     And in the breath that made the mountains bow     The horned fire of Moses on his brow.     The strong wind of the coming of the Lord     Had blown as flame upon him, and brought down     On his bare head from heaven fire for a crown,     And fire was girt upon him as a sword     To smite and lighten, and on what ways he trod     There fell from him the shadow of a God.     Pale, with the whole worlds judgment in his eyes,     He stood and saw the grief and shame endure     That he, though highest of angels might not cure,     And the same sins done under the same skies,     And the same slaves to the same tyrants thrown,     And fain he would have slept, and fain been stone.     But with unslumbering eyes he watched the sleep     That sealed her sense whose eyes were suns of old;     And the night shut and opened, and behold,     The same grave where those prophets came to weep,     But she that lay therein had moved and stirred,     And where those twain had watched her stood a third.     The tripled rhyme that closed in Paradise     With Loves name sealing up its starry speech     The tripled might of hand that found in reach     All crowns beheld far off of all mens eyes,     Song, colour, carven wonders of live stone     These were not, but the very soul alone.     The living spirit, the good gift of grace,     The faith which takes of its own blood to give     That the dead veins of buried hope may live,     Came on her sleeping, face to naked face,     And from a soul more sweet than all the south     Breathed love upon her sealed and breathless mouth.     Between her lips the breath was blown as fire,     And through her flushed veins leapt the liquid life,     And with sore passion and ambiguous strife     The new birth rent her and the new desire,     The will to live, the competence to be,     The sense to hearken and the soul to see.     And the third prophet standing by her grave     Stretched forth his hand and touched her, and her eyes     Opened as sudden suns in heaven might rise,     And her soul caught from his the faith to save;     Faith above creeds, faith beyond records, born     Of the pure, naked, fruitful, awful morn.     For in the daybreak now that night was dead     The light, the shadow, the delight, the pain,     The purpose and the passion of those twain,     Seemed gathered on that third prophetic head,     And all their crowns were as one crown, and one     His face with her face in the living sun.     For even with that communion of their eyes     His whole soul passed into her and made her strong;     And all the sounds and shows of shame and wrong,     The hand that slays, the lip that mocks and lies,     Temples and thrones that yet men seem to see     Are these dead or art thou dead, Italy?