| WILD air, world-mothering air, | |
| Nestling me everywhere, | |
| That each eyelash or hair | |
| Girdles; goes home betwixt | |
| The fleeciest, frailest-flixed | 5 |
| Snow-flake; that’s fairly mixed | |
| With riddles, and is rife | |
| In every least thing’s life; | |
| This needful, never spent | |
| And nursing element; | 10 |
| My more than meat and drink, | |
| My meal at every wink; | |
| This air which by life’s law | |
| My lung must draw and draw | |
| Now, but to breathe its praise,— | 15 |
| Minds me in many ways | |
| Of her who not only | |
| Gave God’s infinity, | |
| Dwindled to infancy, | |
| Welcome in womb and breast, | 20 |
| Birth, milk, and all the rest, | |
| But mothers each new grace | |
| That does now reach our race, | |
| Mary Immaculate, | |
| Merely a woman, yet | 25 |
| Whose presence, power is | |
| Great as no goddess’s | |
| Was deemèd, dreamèd; who | |
| This one work has to do— | |
| Let all God’s glory through, | 30 |
| God’s glory, which would go | |
| Thro’ her and from her flow | |
| Off, and no way but so. | |
| I say that we are wound | |
| With mercy round and round | 35 |
| As if with air: the same | |
| Is Mary, more by name, | |
| She, wild web, wondrous robe, | |
| Mantles the guilty globe. | |
| Since God has let dispense | 40 |
| Her prayers His providence. | |
| Nay, more than almoner, | |
| The sweet alms’ self is her | |
| And men are meant to share | |
| Her life as life does air. | 45 |
| If I have understood, | |
| She holds high motherhood | |
| Towards all our ghostly good, | |
| And plays in grace her part | |
| About man’s beating heart, | 50 |
| Laying like air’s fine flood | |
| The death-dance in his blood; | |
| Yet no part but what will | |
| Be Christ our Saviour still. | |
| Of her flesh He took flesh: | 55 |
| He does take, fresh and fresh, | |
| Though much the mystery how, | |
| Not flesh but spirit now, | |
| And wakes, O marvellous! | |
| New Nazareths in us, | 60 |
| Where she shall yet conceive | |
| Him, morning, noon, and eve; | |
| New Bethlems, and He born | |
| There, evening, noon and morn | |
| Bethlem or Nazareth, | 65 |
| Men here may draw like breath | |
| More Christ, and baffle death; | |
| Who, born so, comes to be | |
| New self, and nobler me | |
| In each one, and each one | 70 |
| More makes, when all is done, | |
| Both God’s and Mary’s son. | |
| Again look overhead | |
| How air is azurèd. | |
| O how! Nay do but stand | 75 |
| Where you can lift your hand | |
| Skywards: rich, rich it laps | |
| Round the four finger-gaps. | |
| Yet such a sapphire-shot | |
| Charged, steepèd sky will not | 80 |
| Stain light. Yea, mark you this: | |
| It does no prejudice. | |
| The glass-blue days are those | |
| When every colour glows, | |
| Each shape and shadow shows. | 85 |
| Blue be it: this blue heaven | |
| The seven or seven times seven | |
| Hued sunbeam will transmit | |
| Perfect, nor alter it. | |
| Or if there does some soft | 90 |
| On things aloof, aloft, | |
| Bloom breathe, that one breath more | |
| Earth is the fairer for. | |
| Whereas did air not make | |
| This bath of blue and slake | 95 |
| This fire, the sun would shake | |
| A blear and blinding ball | |
| With blackness bound, and all | |
| The thick stars round him roll, | |
| Flashing like flecks of coal, | 100 |
| Quartz-fret, or sparks of salt | |
| In grimy vasty vault. | |
| So God was God of old; | |
| A mother came to mould | |
| Those limbs like ours which are, | 105 |
| What must make our daystar | |
| Much dearer to mankind: | |
| Whose glory bare would blind | |
| Or less would win man’s mind. | |
| Through her we may see Him | 110 |
| Made sweeter, not made dim, | |
| And her hand leaves His light | |
| Sifted to suit our sight. | |
| Be thou, then, O thou dear | |
| Mother, my atmosphere; | 115 |
| My happier world wherein | |
| To wend and meet no sin; | |
| Above me, round me lie | |
| Fronting my froward eye | |
| With sweet and scarless sky; | 120 |
| Stir in my ears, speak there | |
| Of God’s love, O live air, | |
| Of patience, penance, prayer; | |
| World-mothering air, air wild, | |
| Wound with thee, in thee isled, | 125 |
| Fold home, fast fold thy child. | |
