Collected Works (Vol. III)

VARIOUS MEASURES LA MAIN DE DIEU THE Hand. control The mystery that is emptiness of air, Purpose and power. What blossom do they bear? Stability and strength inform—what soul? From mystery that is cloud Turn to me, love! the banks of atr are soft. Turn to me, love! the skies are blue, Fleeced with the clouds that hang aloft, Buds that may blossom into dew. Turn to me, love! lie close and breathe The smovth waves of the wind / Lhe zephyr in thy locks I'll wreathe, The breeze entwined, We are so safe; so happy we: Our love can never falter, fate can never close Hard on the flower of land and sea. Lift, O rose petals of my rose, Toward me, rest, dream on, we are here, we love. There is no shadow above, No ghost below; we are here. Kiss! Kiss/ for ever, Who would have believed, have thought of this ? Outside is nothing. Let what will uproll, Within all’s certain. Are we not aware (Who see the hand) What brain must know —and care? What wisdom formed the racers, find a goal? Careless and confident, let us love on. Life, one or many, rises from a seed, Sprouts, blooms, bears fruit, and then is gone—is gone. Let go the future, ominous and vast ! Loose the bound mind from the unavailing past ! Live, love for ever, now, in every deed ! DESESPOIR. INTO the inmost agony of things She sees, through glamour of untrusty sense, The full corruption of omnipotence, The infinite rage of fishes to have wings, The lust of beasts for tentacles; caught thence Corollary, syllogism, she strides tense Into the inmost agony of things. So, fearless, amid gods and evil kings, She sits, poor wretch, eternal scientist, Straining mild muscles, leaving to its list The spasm-shaken body. So she flings The teeth-set fate of Fortune’s face un kissed Against the fiat : sets her clenchéd fist In his face: slides spinning with her body’s twist Into the inmost agony of things. EPERVIER ET COLOMBE., WHEN, at the awful Judgment-day, God stands Shrunken and shaking at my gaze, before My hollow seat of agony, it may be He shall discover me the great excuse For an ill world ill shapen by ill hands, For unit joy and misery ten score, For all his work’s complaint; I think that He, Twitching his fearful fingers, may let loose This answer: Thus a kiss I brought to being Which by no other way were possible. Measure, O man! Balance with eyes true- seeing If I were right or no to have made Hell ! Then would He stand forgiven — nay ! acquitted ! I, as I look on this tight coil of bliss,