| |
| THE BLESSÈD Damozel lean’d out | |
| From the gold bar of Heaven: | |
| Her blue grave eyes were deeper much | |
| Than a deep water, even. | |
| She had three lilies in her hand, | 5 |
| And the stars in her hair were seven. | |
| |
| Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, | |
| No wrought flowers did adorn, | |
| But a white rose of Mary’s gift | |
| On the neck meetly worn; | 10 |
| And her hair, lying down her back, | |
| Was yellow like ripe corn. | |
| |
| Herseem’d she scarce had been a day | |
| One of God’s choristers; | |
| The wonder was not yet quite gone | 15 |
| From that still look of hers; | |
| Albeit, to them she left, her day | |
| Had counted as ten years. | |
| |
| (To one it is ten years of years: | |
| … Yet now, here in this place, | 20 |
| Surely she lean’d o’er me,—her hair | |
| Fell all about my face… | |
| Nothing: the Autumn-fall of leaves. | |
| The whole year sets apace.) | |
| |
| It was the terrace of God’s house | 25 |
| That she was standing on,— | |
| By God built over the sheer depth | |
| In which Space is begun; | |
| So high, that looking downward thence, | |
| She scarce could see the sun. | 30 |
| |
| It lies from Heaven across the flood | |
| Of ether, as a bridge. | |
| Beneath, the tides of day and night | |
| With flame and darkness ridge | |
| The void, as low as where this earth | 35 |
| Spins like a fretful midge. | |
| |
| But in those tracts, with her, it was | |
| The peace of utter light | |
| And silence. For no breeze may stir | |
| Along the steady flight | 40 |
| Of seraphim; no echo there, | |
| Beyond all depth or height. | |
| |
| Heard hardly, some of her new friends, | |
| Playing at holy games, | |
| Spake, gentle-mouth’d, among themselves, | 45 |
| Their virginal chaste names; | |
| And the souls, mounting up to God, | |
| Went by her like thin flames. | |
| |
| And still she bow’d herself, and stoop’d | |
| Into the vast waste calm; | 50 |
| Till her bosom’s pressure must have made | |
| The bar she lean’d on warm, | |
| And the lilies lay as if asleep | |
| Along her bended arm. | |
| |
| From the fixt lull of Heaven, she saw | 55 |
| Time, like a pulse, shake fierce | |
| Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove, | |
| In that steep gulf, to pierce | |
| The swarm; and then she spoke, as when | |
| The stars sang in their spheres. | 60 |
| |
| ‘I wish that he were come to me, | |
| For he will come,’ she said. | |
| ‘Have I not pray’d in solemn Heaven? | |
| On earth, has he not pray’d? | |
| Are not two prayers a perfect strength? | 65 |
| And shall I feel afraid? | |
| |
| ‘When round his head the aureole clings, | |
| And he is clothed in white, | |
| I’ll take his hand, and go with him | |
| To the deep wells of light, | 70 |
| And we will step down as to a stream | |
| And bathe there in God’s sight. | |
| |
| ‘We two will stand beside that shrine, | |
| Occult, withheld, untrod, | |
| Whose lamps tremble continually | 75 |
| With prayer sent up to God; | |
| And where each need, reveal’d, expects | |
| Its patient period. | |
| |
| ‘We two will lie i’ the shadow of | |
| That living mystic tree | 80 |
| Within whose secret growth the Dove | |
| Sometimes is felt to be, | |
| While every leaf that His plumes touch | |
| Saith His name audibly. | |
| |
| ‘And I myself will teach to him,— | 85 |
| I myself, lying so,— | |
| The songs I sing here; which his mouth | |
| Shall pause in, hush’d and slow, | |
| Finding some knowledge at each pause, | |
| And some new thing to know.’ | 90 |
| |
| (Alas! to her wise simple mind | |
| These things were all but known | |
| Before: they trembled on her sense,— | |
| Her voice had caught their tone. | |
| Alas for lonely Heaven! Alas | 95 |
| For life wrung out alone! | |
| |
| Alas, and though the end were reach’d?… | |
| Was thy part understood | |
| Or borne in trust? And for her sake | |
| Shall this too be found good?— | 100 |
| May the close lips that knew not prayer | |
| Praise ever, though they would?) | |
| |
| ‘We two,’ she said, ‘will seek the groves | |
| Where the lady Mary is, | |
| With her five handmaidens, whose names | 105 |
| Are five sweet symphonies:— | |
| Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalen, | |
| Margaret and Rosalys. | |
| |
| ‘Circle-wise sit they, with bound locks | |
| And bosoms coverèd; | 110 |
| Into the fine cloth, white like flame, | |
| Weaving the golden thread, | |
| To fashion the birth-robes for them | |
| Who are just born, being dead. | |
| |
| ‘He shall fear, haply, and be dumb. | 115 |
| Then I will lay my cheek | |
| To his, and tell about our love, | |
| Not once abash’d or weak: | |
| And the dear Mother will approve | |
| My pride, and let me speak. | 120 |
| |
| ‘Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, | |
| To Him round whom all souls | |
| Kneel—the unnumber’d solemn heads | |
| Bow’d with their aureoles: | |
| And Angels, meeting us, shall sing | 125 |
| To their citherns and citoles. | |
| |
| ‘There will I ask of Christ the Lord | |
| Thus much for him and me:— | |
| To have more blessing than on earth | |
| In nowise; but to be | 130 |
| As then we were,—being as then | |
| At peace. Yea, verily. | |
| |
| ‘Yea, verily; when he is come | |
| We will do thus and thus: | |
| Till this my vigil seem quite strange | 135 |
| And almost fabulous; | |
| We two will live at once, one life; | |
| And peace shall be with us.’ | |
| |
| She gazed, and listen’d, and then said, | |
| Less sad of speech than mild,— | 140 |
| ‘All this is when he comes.’ She ceased: | |
| The light thrill’d past her, fill’d | |
| With Angels, in strong level lapse. | |
| Her eyes pray’d, and she smiled. | |
| |
| (I saw her smile.) But soon their flight | 145 |
| Was vague ’mid the poised spheres. | |
| And then she cast her arms along | |
| The golden barriers, | |
| And laid her face between her hands, | |
| And wept. (I heard her tears.) | 150 |
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