How still these two! Christ with far eyes, John with the fond eyes closed, And close unto The breast wherefrom is peace-- No slumber that shall cease, But charmed safety of a faith as sure As a mountain’s founding to endure: And warm as sleep John’s love For the rapt Face above.
Far-rapt, Christ’s eyes, In strength, remember His own resting-place, Where, in this wise, He, the Eternal Word, Had kept deep lull unstirred, Upon the bosom of the Father laid; And, of that peace divined, Knew the Eternal mind.
Then the raised Face Breaks soft and the eyes droop and bend above The sweet head’s place, Where from closed eyelids John Setteth his love upon God, his Lord, his Thought, his Lover dear: And, in lapse of silence falling clear, One heareth only this-- On the sweet head, a kiss.
Come to a revel, happy men! Far away on the hills a wine of joy Makes golden dew in drops, that cloy The fissures of the glen, The crevices of rock; Caught in its sweetness thyme and cistus lock; The hills are white and gold In every fold; The hills are running milk and honey-rivers; Yet not a thyrsus on a mountain quivers.
Does not the distant city cry, As if filled with an unexpected rout, _Alleluia_, shout on shout? Nor can the city high Exult in song enough, Tuning to smoothness all her highways rough. And yet the Bromian god Hath never trod With choir the pavements, nor each grape-haired dancer Given to the mountain-streams a city’s answer.
Behold, O men, a vivid light! Is it the lightning-fire that blazes wide, Or torches lit on every side That turn the sky so bright? Through this great, sudden day, No levin-gendered god’s triumphant way The brands of pine confess: A loveliness Within that mighty light of larger story Is come among us with exceeding glory.
Ye that would drink, come forth and drink! Within the hills are rivers white and gold; Clear mid the day a portent to behold. Stoop at the water’s brink, Seek where the light is great! Why should the revellers for revel wait? Now ye can drink as thirsty stags Where no source flags. Forth to the water-brooks, forth in the morning; Forth to the light that out of light is dawning!
Tiresias, with thy wreath, not thou! Gray prophet of the fount of Thebes, behold A prophet neither blind nor old, Spare and of solemn brow, Is risen to make all young: He dwells among The freshets of the stream. Come to the Waters; O Sons of Adam, haste, and Eva’s daughters! This revel, children, is a revelry Ascetic, of a joy that cannot be Unless we fast and pray and wear no wreaths, Nor brandish cones the forest-fir bequeathes, Nor make a din--but sweet antiphonies-- Nor blow through organ-reeds to sing to these, But of ourselves make song: it is a feast, That by the breath of deserts is increased; And by ablution in the river lifts Its grain to crystal--earth so full of gifts Most exquisite, breaths that are infinite Of infinite judgment, hesitations light Of infinite choiceness, life so fine, so fine, Since of our flesh we welcome the Divine; Since by our fast and reticence, our food From honey-bees in haunts of solitude, O mighty Prophet of the river-bank, We see that light that makes the sun a blank, As a white dove makes a whole region dim; See in the greatness of the great Light’s rim One we must fall down under would we win The ecstasy of revel--all our sin Borne from us by the Wine-Cup in a hand That bleeds about the vessel’s golden stand, Bleeds as the white throat of a lamb just slain. Behold! No _Evoe_ at that poured red stain, No _Evoe_--_Alleluia!_ He is dumb: But let us laud Him, Eleutherius come!