The Soul of Osiris

THE HOLY PLACE. 89 From Hesper to the break of rose and gold, Where Heaven’s petals in the East unfold The awful flower of morning : for the folk Bound in one single patient love, a yoke Too light for fairy fingers to have woven, Too strong for mere archangels to have cloven With adamantine blades from the armoury Of the amazing forges of the sea : The folk that follow with undaunted mein The utmost beauty that their eyes have seen— O patient sufferers ! yet your storm-scarred brows Burn with the star of majesty : your vows Have given you the wisdom and the power To weld eternities within one hour, To bind and braid the North wind’s serpent hair, And track the East wind to his mighty lair Even in the caverns of the womb of dawn ; To take the South wind and his fire withdrawn And clothe him with your kiss ; to seize the West In his gold palace where the sea-winds rest, And hurl him ravening on the breaking foam ; To find the Spirit in his glimmering home And draw his secret from unwilling lips ; To master earthquake, and the dread eclipse ; To dominate the red volcanic rage ; To quench the whirlpool, conquering war to wage Against all gods not wholly made as ye, O patient, and O marvellous ! I see, I see before me an archangel stand, Whose flaming scimitar, a triple brand,