Order is a lovely thing; | |
On disarray it lays its wing, | |
Teaching simplicity to sing. | |
It has a meek and lowly grace, | |
Quiet as a nun's face. | 5 |
Lo—I will have thee in this place! | |
Tranquil well of deep delight, | |
All things that shine through thee appear | |
As stones through water, sweetly clear. | |
Thou clarity, | 10 |
That with angelic charity | |
Revealest beauty where thou art, | |
Spread thyself like a clean pool. | |
Then all the things that in thee are, | |
Shall seem more spiritual and fair, | 15 |
Reflection from serener air— | |
Sunken shapes of many a star | |
In the high heavens set afar. | |
|
II Ye stolid, homely, visible things, | |
Above you all brood glorious wings | 20 |
Of your deep entities, set high, | |
Like slow moons in a hidden sky. | |
But you, their likenesses, are spent | |
Upon another element. | |
Truly ye are but seemings— | 25 |
The shadowy cast-oft gleamings | |
Of bright solidities. Ye seem | |
Soft as water, vague as dream; | |
Image, cast in a shifting stream. | |
|
III What are ye? | 30 |
I know not. | |
Brazen pan and iron pot, | |
Yellow brick and gray flag-stone | |
That my feet have trod upon— | |
Ye seem to me | 35 |
Vessels of bright mystery. | |
For ye do bear a shape, and so | |
Though ye were made by man, I know | |
An inner Spirit also made, | |
And ye his breathings have obeyed. | 40 |
|
IV Shape, the strong and awful Spirit, | |
Laid his ancient hand on you. | |
He waste chaos doth inherit; | |
He can alter and subdue. | |
Verily, he doth lift up | 45 |
Matter, like a sacred cup. | |
Into deep substance he reached, and lo | |
Where ye were not, ye were; and so | |
Out of useless nothing, ye | |
Groaned and laughed and came to be. | 50 |
And I use you, as I can, | |
Wonderful uses, made for man, | |
Iron pot and brazen pan. | |
|
V What are ye? | |
I know not; | 55 |
Nor what I really do | |
When I move and govern you. | |
There is no small work unto God. | |
He required of us greatness; | |
Of his least creature | 60 |
A high angelic nature, | |
Stature superb and bright completeness. | |
He sets to us no humble duty. | |
Each act that he would have us do | |
Is haloed round with strangest beauty; | 65 |
Terrific deeds and cosmic tasks | |
Of his plainest child he asks. | |
When I polish the brazen pan | |
I hear a creature laugh afar | |
In the gardens of a star, | 70 |
And from his burning presence run | |
Flaming wheels of many a sun. | |
Whoever makes a thing more bright, | |
He is an angel of all light. | |
When I cleanse this earthen floor | 75 |
My spirit leaps to see | |
Bright garments trailing over it, | |
A cleanness made by me. | |
Purger of all men's thoughts and ways, | |
With labor do I sound Thy praise, | 80 |
My work is done for Thee. | |
Whoever makes a thing more bright, | |
He is an angel of all light. | |
Therefore let me spread abroad | |
The beautiful cleanness of my God. | 85 |
|
VI One time in the cool of dawn | |
Angels came and worked with me. | |
The air was soft with many a wing. | |
They laughed amid my solitude | |
And cast bright looks on everything. | 90 |
Sweetly of me did they ask | |
That they might do my common task | |
And all were beautiful—but one | |
With garments whiter than the sun | |
Had such a face | 95 |
Of deep, remembered grace; | |
That when I saw I cried—"Thou art | |
The great Blood-Brother of my heart. | |
Where have I seen thee?"—And he said, | |
"When we are dancing round God's throne, | 100 |
How often thou art there. | |
Beauties from thy hands have flown | |
Like white doves wheeling in mid air. | |
Nay—thy soul remembers not? | |
Work on, and cleanse thy iron pot." | 105 |
|
VII What are we? I know not. |