upon seeing a portrait of
Something moves in his dust,
Flame sleeps beneath the crust;
O whence had he those
Lit with celestial surprise?
From what world blew that gust?
Are we near to Paradise?
Gather a chaplet of five
And the opalescent
Of the aureole brightness cast — Red, hardly red, and blue, scarce blue, — Round th' immaculate frosty moon,
Splintering light in glacial spars,
When November's loudening
Sweeps heaven's floor till
More crystal than at August noon,
So we fit radiance may
Before his feet, around his head.
How visits he an earthly place,
Wanders among a mortal race?
How were his footsteps
That still about his
Lingers a ghostly
Of a secret influence
By a Hand the world denies,
In a land her most son flies,
As a gift upon him
For an end he knoweth not,
Yet will shine because he must,
Shine and sing because he
Reap a wrong he soweth
Of contempt anger and
For a world which boweth
To the Flame which binds our dust.
Go net the moon, go snare the sun,
Set them upon his either hand!
Beneath his heels
Roll your thick coils!
His head be
By rainbows tripled!
Set a
At the Cross-scabbard of his
Whiter than lambwool or lilystem!
Place on his brow the
Given the warrior of the Lord,
The crown-turrets of Jerusalem!
