Easter Dawn
Enter, sun, this silent world!
Let thy colors shake unfurled,
Down these pale green miles of sky,
On this pale green sea to lie.
Not a murmur breaks the still
Of the forest on yon hill;
Scarce a ripple round my prow
As the sea I softly plow.
Here the jellyfish has spread
His umbrella o’er his head.
And the olive kelp things pass
Noiselessly, on liquid glass.
In the distance, sweet and dim,
All the enchanted islands swim,
And the large, white morning-star
Watches o’er the western bar.
Lean aside, ye domes of snow,
Let the proud sun enter slow,
As befits a royal king!
Now, behold, how everything
Of a sudden springs to life―
With keen passion swiftly rife!
How the ripples laugh and speak,
Sliding lengthwise, cheek to cheek;
How the radiant colors run
Up before the mounting sun;
How is tipped with crimson fire
Every slender forest spire;
How the gray rocks, creased and worn,
By the tides of centuries torn,
Lift their barren breasts and turn
Dumbly to the light, and burn;
How the islands flame like brass
On a floor of tinted glass,
And the frozen mountains speak
With blazing signals, peak to peak.
Now the small waves shine and sing
As round my prow they lip and cling;
By a faint scent wandereth
Sweeter than a woman’s breath,
And a flush burns in the South
Warmer than a woman’s mouth.
Every bird on yonder hill
With his full notes breaks the still―
God’s inspired chorus! Hark!
Robin, thrush, song-sparrow, lark.
Lo, it is the Easter dawn!
Lo, it is the holy dawn!
In no church with incense sweet
May I hope my Lord to meet―
Where the finest choirs are sought,
And the richest pews are bought;
Where the longing ones are dumb,
And the ragged must not come;
Where the sinful and the worn,
And the woman passion-torn―
Hollow-eyed and lipped with gray―
See the rich skirts drawn away
By a hand immaculate,
Lest one touch contaminate.
Rather, let me steal apart,
With a full and trembling heart,
Where dumb things unite in praise
Of this holy day of days,
And in places pure as this
Kneel, His tortured feet to kiss.
Not one broken, dying flower
Do I offer in this hour,
But my lifted, shaking hands
Bear offerings He understands;
And I feel His palm in mine,
And I drink His breath like wine.
O, my soul, mount high and sing!
O, my soul, mount high and sing!
"Easter Dawn" as it appears in Ella Higginson's When the Birds Go North Again (1898).
No comments:
Post a Comment