The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse
The Poet CallsAlan Sullivan (18681947)
F
That the word of my mouth be music, that the chord of my speech be wine;
For the soul that trembles within me would marvellous things unfold,
Tho’ the world is weary of singing and the eyes of the world are cold.
The Prince of the earth’s rejoicing, the Prophet and Priest of tears!
Have I not tasted rapture, have I not loved and died,
Mounted the peaks of passion, with you been crucified?
Magical union of body, and glory of magical face:
These—shall I sing of them sweetly? I know when the lovers stray
In the hush where the cloistered woodland broods over the wistful day.
And through your sweat and labour the strain of my song shall flow,
Dulcet sweet for your comfort, winged with a delicate fire,
The shout of a strong heart chanting to the lift of the soul’s desire.
And trailed with shimmering curtain of dream-embroidered sleep,
To the dim mysterious portal, where the spirit of man may see
The fold of the veil dividing himself from eternity.
Or turn from the plaint of my tender articulate whispering—
Ere ever ye came,—I was ancient; and after ye pass,—I come,
The voice that shall rise in rapture when the moan of the earth is dumb.