I, the lion-throated,
The shaker of mountains!
I, the invincible,
Lasher of oceans!
"Past the horizon,
Its ring of pale azure
Past the horizon,
Where scurry the white clouds,
There are buds and small flowers--
Flowers like snow-flakes,
Blossoms like rain-drops,
So small and tremulous.
Therein a fetter
Shall shackle and bind me,
Shall weigh down my shouting
With their delicate perfume!"
But who this frail fetter
Shall forge on an anvil,
With hammer of feather
And anvil of velvet?
Past the horizon,
In the palm of a valley,
Her feet in the grasses,
There is a maiden.
She smiles on the flowers,
They widen and redden,
She weeps on the flowers,
They grow up and kiss her.
She breathes in their bosoms,
They breathe back in odours;
Inarticulate homage,
Dumb adoration.
She shall wreathe them in shackles,
Shall weave them in fetters;
In chains shall she braid them,
And me shall she fetter.
I, the invincible;
March, the earth-shaker;
March, the sea-lifter;
March, the sky-render;
March, the lion-throated.
April the weaver
Of delicate blossoms,
And moulder of red buds--
Shall, at the horizon,
Its ring of pale azure,
Its scurry of white clouds,
Meet in the sunlight.
"THE EARTH WAXETH OLD."
When yellow-lock'd and crystal ey'd
I dream'd green woods among;
Where tall trees wav'd from side to side,
And in their green breasts deep and wide,
I saw the building blue jay hide,
O, then the earth was young!
The winds were fresh and brave and bold,
The red sun round and strong;
No prophet voice chill, loud and cold,
Across my woodland dreamings roll'd,
"The green earth waxeth sere and old,
That once was fair and young!"
I saw in scarr'd and knotty bole,
The fresh'ning of the sap;
When timid spring gave first small dole,
Of sunbeams thro' bare boughs that stole,
I saw the bright'ning blossoms roll,
From summer's high pil'd lap.
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