Preludes (Meynell)/The Poets
THE POETS.
FIRST VOICE: THE ALPS. SECOND VOICE: THE ANGEL.
Oh, for the hidden songs of showers,
And symphonies of seas!
Oh, for the secrets of a whispering wild of flowers,
And guess'd accords of the harper-wind i' the trees,
And the warm summer-bees.
For us the springs are old,
And summer after summer cold.
For us the eagles scream
Once suddenly in the sleep of snow.
A deed is done among the centuries.
An avalanche slides slow,
And rests: one more eternity it lies:
And there has been a fall across the dream
Of the white sleep of snow.
Our cold and crownéd heads are lifted up in woe,
Our barren faces,
Whose tears are sealed in awful places.
Thou art so high above.
Let be. A little life! a little love!
What shall repay the baffled soul, the vain endeavour?
Not our great nights
Whose dark unmeasured windy mystery,
Whose falls, whose heights
No heart doth feel, no eye doth see,
For ever.
No, Lord, no.
Nor our great open secret snow,
Where comes the sun at even and morn
To be alone,
And wild winds seeking solitude for their torn
And wounded souls. Can these atone,
Shall these repay?
No, nor the dawns we know,
Whose thoughts grow light on our eternal snow.
We mourn, we pray:
Oh, melt our snows to rain.
How can we reach thee?
Lay us low.
Level us with the plain,
Oh, we beseech thee.
Second Voice:
O cold and glorious!
O lonely and victorious!
Suffer your thoughts, abide.
Suffer, ye seven-fold tried.
Wild winds and storm, rejoice the peaks among;
Exult with timbrel, dance, and song,
Deafen that pain with jubilee.
Cloud answers cloud with thunder;
And eagle's voice to eagle's voice replies far under.
I cannot let you be,
My chosen, till your answer rise to me.
Suffer your great wild things; abide.
The secrets that in your abysses hide,
And in your desolate cold are sealed,
Gather in heaven and fall in tender rain
That thoughts of many hearts may be revealed,
These hearts that throng the plain.
Over your brows shall clouds abide,
Yours be the wildest winds, and vast suns open-eyed,
And crowning mists that hide
High fields of thoughts and sunlights after pain.
First Voice:
How shall we reach thee?
Level us with the plain,
Oh, we beseech thee.