The Knickerbocker Gallery/Love Supreme
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Rufus W. Griswold
Love Supreme.
A FRAGMENT FROM AN UNPUBLISHED STORY.
And I look up to Heaven in supplication; With passionate prayers along the pathway starredI send my soul to Christ for an oblation, But find the entrance to his presence barred.To Love Supreme, upon their pearly hinges The golden gates of Paradise unfold,As after night and storm their blazing fringes The clouds lift up, and glory is unrolled,So beautiful and grand, upon the mountains, That we see not the valleys, nearer lying,Nor even hear the musical play of fountains, Nor the earthlife that gives it glad replying.To Love Supreme! but ah! my heart is buried There in her coffin; and the prayer I'm breathingIs for her smile, on flowers I there have carried, Her gentle smile, on flowers I there was wreathing—With more of fear than love, as to a teacher Comes the young child to ask his mate for playing,And, as he speaks, lets go his soul to reach her Ere he has heard the voice of his own praying.
You can not come, you can not even hear me, The gates are closed while I without am calling,I look around, no more I see you near me, Upon my lifted face are arrows falling. Because I love you more than I love Heaven Heaven has no mercy. All my heart's fond caringWas for your eyes' sweet light, that now is riven, And I grope on in darkness and despairing.Hear me, oh God! if there await no morrow, If for our severed hearts, there is no meeting,If still must fall in tempests all this sorrow, (No sorrow whiles I held you from its beating!)Then let the hills, in avalanches turning, Engulf me in their centres; with her features,Dear, though so cold, on mine, into that burning I would go down, with all the meaner creatures,Calmly into extinction; but desiring That as I bore what was her form, in blindness,She would in it relive, for my expiring, And thrill my panting, sinking soul, with kindness.
Ah! from that verge of Death's dark boundless ocean, As I the cliffs from life and hope descended,Could I look back and know that your devotion Not with your glory or my gloom is ended—Hear the old tones, see in the eyes old feelings, While, for one moment, on my own the pressingOf your dear lips: O Heavan! those wild revealings Should turn this blast to an immortal blessing.Then, O ye surges, that are now entombing The ever-dying in your caverns dreary,Then I could hear all unappalled your booming, Nor of your crowding horrors ever weary—With the last effort of each sense receiving The truth that should be foil against your powers,Brave your strange boiling, roaring, and upheaving, Leap to your horrors as to seas of flowers!