On Waking
What mourns
Cualann's secret flying,
A lost voice
In endless fields.
What rejoices?
My voice lifted praising thee.
Praise! Praise! Praise!
Praise out of trumpets, whose brass
Is thee urn unyoked strength of bulls;
Praise upon harps, whose strings
Are the light movements of birds;
Praise of leaf, praise of blossom,
Praise of the red—fibred clay;
Praise of grass,
Fire-woven veil of the temple;
Praise of the shapes of clouds;
Praise of the shadows of wells;
Praise of worms, of fetal things,
And of the things in time's thought
Not yet begotten.
To thee, queller of sleep,
Looser of the snare of death.
[289]
