’Neath Gregory’s throne a spider swings,
And snares the people for the kings;
’Luther is dead; old quarrels pass: 
The stake’s black scars are healed with grass;’
So dreamers prate; did man e’er live
Saw priest or woman yet forgive? 
But Luther’s broom is left, and eyes
Peep o’er their creeds to where it lies. 
  Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! 
  Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! 
  In the shadow, year out, year in,
  The silent headsman waits forever.

Smooth sails the ship of either realm,
Kaiser and Jesuit at the helm;
We look down the depths, and mark
Silent workers in the dark
Building slow the sharp-tusked reefs,
Old instincts hardening to new beliefs;
Patience a little; learn to wait;
Hours are long on the clock of Fate. 
  Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! 
  Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! 
  Darkness is strong, and so is Sin,
  But surely God endures forever!

THE MINER

Down ’mid the tangled roots of things
  That coil about the central fire,
I seek for that which giveth wings
  To stoop, not soar, to my desire.

Sometimes I hear, as ’twere a sigh,
  The sea’s deep yearning far above,
‘Thou hast the secret not,’ I cry,
  ‘In deeper deeps is hid my Love.’

They think I burrow from the sun,
  In darkness, all alone, and weak;
Such loss were gain if He were won,
  For ’tis the sun’s own Sun I seek.

‘The earth,’ they murmur, ’is the tomb
  That vainly sought his life to prison;
Why grovel longer in the gloom? 
  He is not here; he hath arisen.’

More life for me where he hath lain
  Hidden while ye believed him dead,
Than in cathedrals cold and vain,
  Built on loose sands of It is said.

My search is for the living gold;
  Him I desire who dwells recluse,
And not his image worn and old,
  Day-servant of our sordid use.

If him I find not, yet I find
  The ancient joy of cell and church,
The glimpse, the surety undefined,
  The unquenched ardor of the search.

Happier to chase a flying goal
  Than to sit counting laurelled gains,
To guess the Soul within the soul
  Than to be lord of what remains.

Hide still, best Good, in subtile wise,
  Beyond my nature’s utmost scope;
Be ever absent from mine eyes
  To be twice present in my hope!

GOLD EGG:  A DREAM-FANTASY

HOW A STUDENT IN SEARCH OF THE BEAUTIFUL FELL ASLEEP IN DRESDEN OVER HERR
PROFESSOR DOCTOR VISCHER’S WISSENSCHAFT DES SCHOeNEN, AND WHAT CAME THEREOF

I swam with undulation soft,
  Adrift on Vischer’s ocean,
And, from my cockboat up aloft,
Sent down my mental plummet oft
  In hope to reach a notion.

But from the metaphysic sea
  No bottom was forthcoming,
And all the while (how drearily!)
In one eternal note of B
  My German stove kept humming. 10