352. An Insurgent of Art

LIKE a tired lover I rest on her bosom,

I, the Insurgent of Art … Thou, the Glory,

Worshipped of Cherubim, leaning toward me;

Now through the yellowing clouds of the rushes,

Now o’er the music of waters melodic,

Now from the wavering blue fields of heaven,

Or from the daffodil’s soundless pale trumpet,

Drawing my soul with miraculous ardours!

What is thy purpose? Ah! What is thy doing?

White stars are water-blooms set in the ocean,

Young lives are petals from one burning Blossom,

Fallen from altitudes starry and primal—

Welcome the wind that shall blow them to shelter,

Breathe on their circumstance, shape the Soul’s eddy

Separately fire and transform all this wonder.

I, thy lost lover, long-waiting, have found Thee,

I, who had seen Thy sheathed colours, descending,

Melt into violets, flow into pansies,

Know that the Master hath need of the artist!

Out of the force of His Being, atomic,

Came I, and go I, ripe seed of His sowing;

Reticent, mutinous, still have I found Thee,

Steadfast I worship, for Thou art so near me—

Set in a Soul, my one Holy of Holies!