O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine, While the riotous noon-day sun of the June-day long did shine Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine; 20 But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West, And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream, Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of the oak, And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome sound of the stroke Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low, And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know, And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within, 30 That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the Marshes of Glynn Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bitterness sore, And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable pain Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain.— Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shimmering band Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds of the land. 50 Inward and outward to northward and southward the beach-lines linger and curl As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and follows the firm sweet limbs of a girl. Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light. And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high? The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky! A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade, Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade, Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, To the terminal blue of the main. 60 Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea? Somehow my soul seems suddenly free From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin, By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn. Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea! Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won greatness of God: I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies: By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God: Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn. And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the sea Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be: 80 Look how the grace of the sea doth go Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes, And the marsh is meshed with a million. Then Mind rode in and Sense rode out: They searched the ways of man about. 10 First frightfully groaneth Sense. "'Tis here, 'tis here," and spurreth in fear To the top of the hill that hangeth above And plucketh the Prince: "Come, come, 'tis here-" "Where?" quoth Love "Not far, not far," said shivering Sense As they rode on. "A short way hence, -But seventy paces hence: Look, King, dost see where suddenly This road doth dip from the height above? Cold blew a mouldy wind by me." ("Cold?" quoth Love.) 20 "As I rode down, and the River was black, And yon-side, lo! an endless wrack And rabble of souls," sighed Sense, "Their eyes upturned and begged and burned In brimstone lakes, and a Hand above Beat back the hands that upward yearned-" "Nay!" quoth Love "Yea, yea, sweet Prince; thyself shalt see, Wilt thou but down this slope with me; 30 'Tis palpable," whispered Sense. At the foot of the hill a living rill Shone, and the lilies shone white above; "But now 'twas black, 'twas a river, this rill," ("Black?" quoth Love,) "Ay, black, but lo! the lilies grow, And yon-side where was woe, was woe,Where the rabble of souls," cried Sense, "Did shrivel and turn and beg and burn, Thrust back in the brimstone from aboveIs banked of violet, rose, and fern:" "How?" quoth Love: 41 60 There, while they stood in a green wood And marvelled still on Ill and Good, Came suddenly Minister Mind. "In the heart of sin doth hell begin: 'Tis not below, 'tis not above, It lieth within, it lieth within:" ("Where?" quoth Love.) "I saw a man sit by a corse; Hell's in the murderer's breast: remorse! Thus clamored his mind to his mind: Not fleshly dole is the sinner's goal, Hell's not below, nor yet above, 'Tis fixed in the ever-damnèd soul""Fixed?" quoth Love 70 "We saw it, and yet 'tis hard to find, -But we saw it," quoth Sense and Mind. Stretched on the ground, beautifully crowned Of the piteous willow that wreathed above, "But I cannot find where ye have found Hell," quoth Love. 1878. The Century Magazine, Mar., 1884. |