Poems (Sackville)/The Poet
For works with similar titles, see The Poet.
THE POET
In pallid streams his life oozed out— In the wild watching of his eyesSweet visions ever seemed to rout A host of fevered phantasies— Or struggle 'neath a vague surprise.
Upon his lips a silence lay Which strove to speak and ever stroveTo tear some blinding veil away— A slavish fetter to remove, Or some yet hidden force to prove.
Beneath the faint far sky at night When a cold harvesting of starsThe moon reaps and the dim moonlight Pours down 'twixt cloudy prison bars He moved as one whom no grief mars.
And with wide rapture lost all sense Of self within the night's cool breath,Grew portion of all things immense, Tides infinite of life and death, And those great words the ocean saith.
Or with the shadows of a wood, Or some deserted, treeless plain,Mingled the throbbings of his blood, Loosing all human thought and pain, And things that grow and things that wane—
In knowledge of the clouds that flit— Pale birds of Heaven, across the sky—Time's slow hands weaving bit by bit A manifold embroidery Of all things born to live and die.
So was he fashioned that his thought Suffered when something would annulThose words his brain divinely wrought— And left him, for the beautiful, Merely dark shades confused and dull.
And all his suffering rose and drew Pale phantoms on his anguished mind,Which overcast and overthrew His soul—as poisonous serpents wind Their victims, so his thoughts would blind.
Nor could he rest, nor weep, nor pray— Only a company of mimesFantastical—in strange array— His lips would summon forth at times, Dim hosts of feebly-fashioned rhymes.
Yet once his soul with splendid fire Broke every bond and fettering cord—Beyond the reach of all desire Sprang, as from out its sheath, a sword, And clove the Heavens with a word.
No conscious music filled his soul— Nor trembled on his lips—he grewBeyond the reach of all control— A hollow vase, from which men drew God's wine, and nothing further knew.
Or as a flame which burns its way Elate, through fields of scorching grass,Nor knows its power to sere and slay, Nor where its molten footsteps pass; Even thus his burning spirit was.
Where teemed a gulf of nights and days Chaotic, he from the blank sodCalled from those shapeless, voiceless ways Divinely as a fashioning god Another world where Beauty trod.
Such was his recompense, but when He gazed astonished at the thingWrought with pure fire of heart and brain A surging tumult seemed to sting His blood, and round his being cling.
Not yet could he participate In sweet accomplished work—his willStood with drawn weapon at the gate Of his own Paradise, that still The unfulfilled he might fulfil.
Nor, the abyss of chaos spanned, Could he for any period rest—Awaiting his creative hand The thought of Heavens unpossess'd Roused all the passion in his breast.
With yearning heart and eyes afire— With tears and splendid speech imbued,Scarce conscious of his own desire, He endless world on world pursued Of ever-growing magnitude.