George William Russell (‘Æ’).

1867-1935

910   By the Margin of the Great Deep

WHEN the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty
    skies,
All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow and silver gleam,
With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;
     I am one with the twilight’s dream.

When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,
Every heart of man is rapt within the mother’s breast:
Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,
     I am one with their hearts at rest.

From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love
Stray’d away along the margin of the unknown tide,
All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above
     Word or touch from the lips beside.

Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw
From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream,
Such primæval being as o’erfills the heart with awe,
     Growing one with its silent stream.

911   The Great Breath

ITS edges foam’d with amethyst and rose,
Withers once more the old blue flower of day:
There where the ether like a diamond glows,
     Its petals fade away.

A shadowy tumult stirs the dusky air;
Sparkle the delicate dews, the distant snows;
The great deep thrills—for through it everywhere
     The breath of Beauty blows.

I saw how all the trembling ages past,
Moulded to her by deep and deeper breath,
Near’d to the hour when Beauty breathes her last
     And knows herself in death.

912   Germinal

CALL not thy wanderer home as yet
    Though it be late.
Now is his first assailing of
    The invisible gate.
Be still through that light knocking. The hour
    Is throng’d with fate.

To that first tapping at the invisible door
    Fate answereth.
What shining image or voice, what sigh
    Or honied breath,
Comes forth, shall be the master of life
    Even to death.

Satyrs may follow after. Seraphs
    On crystal wing
May blaze. But the delicate first comer
    It shall be King.
They shall obey, even the mightiest,
    That gentle thing.

All the strong powers of Dante were bow’d
    To a child’s mild eyes,
That wrought within him that travail
    From depths up to skies,
Inferno, Purgatorio
    And Paradise.

Amid the soul’s grave councillors
    A petulant boy
Laughs under the laurels and purples, the elf
    Who snatch’d at his joy,
Ordering Caesar’s legions to bring him
    The world for his toy.

In ancient shadows and twilights
    Where childhood had stray’d,
The world’s great sorrows were born
    And its heroes were made.
In the lost boyhood of Judas
    Christ was betray’d.

Let thy young wanderer dream on:
    Call him not home.
A door opens, a breath, a voice
    From the ancient room,
Speaks to him now. Be it dark or bright
    He is knit with his doom.