Ambergris

AMBERGRIS 7 In the last rustle of forgotten leaves. Over the bridges pass the throngs ; the sound, Deep and insistent, penetrates the mist— I hear it not ; I contemplate the wound Stabbed in the flanks of my dear silver Christ. He hangs in anguish there ; the crown of thorns Pierces that palest brow ; the nails drip blood ; There is the wound ; no Mary by Him mourns, There is no John beside the cruel wood. I am alone to kiss the silver lips ; I rend my clothing for the temple veil ; My heart’s black night must act the sun’s eclipse ; My groans must play the earthquake, till I quail At my own dark imagining. And now The wind is bitterer : the air breeds snow ; I put my Christ away ; I turn my brow Towards the south stedfastly ; my feet must go Some journey of despair. I dare not turn To meet the sun ; I will not follow him : Better to pass where sand and sulphur burn, And days are hazed with heat, and nights are dim With some malarial poison. Better lie Far and forgotten on some desert isle, Where I may watch the silent ships go by, And let them share my burden for awhile. Let me pass out beyond the city gate Where I may wander by the water still, And see the faint few stars immaculate Watch their own beauty in its depth, and chill Their own desire within its icy stream. Let me move on with vacant eyes, as one Lost in the labyrinth of some ill dream, Move and move on, and never see the sun Lap all the mist with orange and red gold, Throw some lank windmill into iron shade, And stir the chill canal with manifold Rays of clear morning ; never grow afraid When he dips down beyond the far fiat land, Know never more the day and night apart,