Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Algernon Charles Swinburne. 18371909809. Hertha
I AM that which began; | |
Out of me the years roll; | |
Out of me God and man; | |
I am equal and whole; | |
God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul. | 5 |
Before ever land was, | |
Before ever the sea, | |
Or soft hair of the grass, | |
Or fair limbs of the tree, | |
Or the flesh-colour’d fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in me. | 10 |
First life on my sources | |
First drifted and swam; | |
Out of me are the forces | |
That save it or damn; | |
Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird: before God was, I am. | 15 |
Beside or above me | |
Naught is there to go; | |
Love or unlove me, | |
Unknow me or know, | |
I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the blow. | 20 |
I the mark that is miss’d | |
And the arrows that miss, | |
I the mouth that is kiss’d | |
And the breath in the kiss, | |
The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul and the body that is. | 25 |
I am that thing which blesses | |
My spirit elate; | |
That which caresses | |
With hands uncreate | |
My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the measure of fate. | 30 |
But what thing dost thou now, | |
Looking Godward, to cry, | |
‘I am I, thou art thou, | |
I am low, thou art high’? | |
I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; find thou but thyself, thou art I. | 35 |
I the grain and the furrow, | |
The plough-cloven clod | |
And the ploughshare drawn thorough, | |
The germ and the sod, | |
The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust which is God. | 40 |
Hast thou known how I fashion’d thee, | |
Child, underground? | |
Fire that impassion’d thee, | |
Iron that bound, | |
Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou known of or found? | 45 |
Canst thou say in thine heart | |
Thou hast seen with thine eyes | |
With what cunning of art | |
Thou wast wrought in what wise, | |
By what force of what stuff thou wast shapen, and shown on my breast to the skies? | 50 |
Who hath given, who hath sold it thee, | |
Knowledge of me? | |
Has the wilderness told it thee? | |
Hast thou learnt of the sea? | |
Hast thou communed in spirit with night? have the winds taken counsel with thee? | 55 |
Have I set such a star | |
To show light on thy brow | |
That thou sawest from afar | |
What I show to thee now? | |
Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the mountains and thou? | 60 |
What is here, dost thou know it? | |
What was, hast thou known? | |
Prophet nor poet | |
Nor tripod nor throne | |
Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy mother alone. | 65 |
Mother, not maker, | |
Born, and not made; | |
Though her children forsake her, | |
Allured or afraid, | |
Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she stirs not for all that have pray’d. | 70 |
A creed is a rod, | |
And a crown is of night; | |
But this thing is God, | |
To be man with thy might, | |
To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out thy life as the light. | 75 |
I am in thee to save thee, | |
As my soul in thee saith; | |
Give thou as I gave thee, | |
Thy life-blood and breath, | |
Green leaves of thy labour, white flowers of thy thought, and red fruit of thy death. | 80 |
Be the ways of thy giving | |
As mine were to thee; | |
The free life of thy living, | |
Be the gift of it free; | |
Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave, shalt thou give thee to me. | 85 |
O children of banishment, | |
Souls overcast, | |
Were the lights ye see vanish meant | |
Alway to last, | |
Ye would know not the sun overshining the shadows and stars overpast. | 90 |
I that saw where ye trod | |
The dim paths of the night | |
Set the shadow call’d God | |
In your skies to give light; | |
But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in sight. | 95 |
The tree many-rooted | |
That swells to the sky | |
With frondage red-fruited, | |
The life-tree am I; | |
In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves: ye shall live and not die. | 100 |
But the Gods of your fashion | |
That take and that give, | |
In their pity and passion | |
That scourge and forgive, | |
They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off; they shall die and not live. | 105 |
My own blood is what stanches | |
The wounds in my bark; | |
Stars caught in my branches | |
Make day of the dark, | |
And are worshipp’d as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their fires as a spark. | 110 |
Where dead ages hide under | |
The live roots of the tree, | |
In my darkness the thunder | |
Makes utterance of me; | |
In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of the sea. | 115 |
That noise is of Time, | |
As his feathers are spread | |
And his feet set to climb | |
Through the boughs overhead, | |
And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with his tread. | 120 |
The storm-winds of ages | |
Blow through me and cease, | |
The war-wind that rages, | |
The spring-wind of peace, | |
Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of my blossoms increase. | 125 |
All sounds of all changes, | |
All shadows and lights | |
On the world’s mountain-ranges | |
And stream-riven heights, | |
Whose tongue is the wind’s tongue and language of storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights; | 130 |
All forms of all faces, | |
All works of all hands | |
In unsearchable places | |
Of time-stricken lands, | |
All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me as sands. | 135 |
Though sore be my burden | |
And more than ye know, | |
And my growth have no guerdon | |
But only to grow, | |
Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or deathworms below. | 140 |
These too have their part in me, | |
As I too in these; | |
Such fire is at heart in me, | |
Such sap is this tree’s, | |
Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of infinite lands and of seas. | 145 |
In the spring-colour’d hours | |
When my mind was as May’s | |
There brake forth of me flowers | |
By centuries of days, | |
Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out from my spirit as rays. | 150 |
And the sound of them springing | |
And smell of their shoots | |
Were as warmth and sweet singing | |
And strength to my roots; | |
And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my fruits. | 155 |
I bid you but be; | |
I have need not of prayer; | |
I have need of you free | |
As your mouths of mine air; | |
That my heart may be greater within me, beholding the fruits of me fair. | 160 |
More fair than strange fruit is | |
Of faiths ye espouse; | |
In me only the root is | |
That blooms in your boughs; | |
Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your vows. | 165 |
In the darkening and whitening | |
Abysses adored, | |
With dayspring and lightning | |
For lamp and for sword, | |
God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the Lord. | 170 |
O my sons, O too dutiful | |
Toward Gods not of me, | |
Was not I enough beautiful? | |
Was it hard to be free? | |
For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you; look forth now and see. | 175 |
Lo, wing’d with world’s wonders, | |
With miracles shod, | |
With the fires of his thunders | |
For raiment and rod, | |
God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with the terror of God. | 180 |
For his twilight is come on him, | |
His anguish is here; | |
And his spirits gaze dumb on him, | |
Grown gray from his fear; | |
And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his infinite year. | 185 |
Thought made him and breaks him, | |
Truth slays and forgives; | |
But to you, as time takes him, | |
This new thing it gives, | |
Even love, the belovèd Republic, that feeds upon freedom and lives. | 190 |
For truth only is living, | |
Truth only is whole, | |
And the love of his giving | |
Man’s polestar and pole; | |
Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and seed of my soul. | 195 |
One birth of my bosom; | |
One beam of mine eye; | |
One topmost blossom | |
That scales the sky; | |
Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, man that is I. | 200 |