Orpheus

G! O Nature, my mother, Heart melted on heart At last! Not another, Not any shall part Thy soul from my art. How should it be otherwise, Sister divine, Lover, my mother wise, Wiser than wine? Seeing I linger Here on the beach— Let God’s own finger Here to me reach, Making me singer Each unto each— Nature and Man made one In the light and fire of the sun, And the sobbing tune Of the moon, Wedded in cyclic bonds, Where fall the zon-fronds, Whose large bed bears a child (In its due period) Not merciful and not severe, Knowing nor love nor fear, But majesty most mild, Being indeed a God. Yea, let the very ray-hand of Apollo Lead me where none may follow 97