This serpent on my wrist becomes alive! 
Away, thou viper! and away, ye garlands,
Whose odors bring the swift remembrance back
Of the unhallowed revels in these chambers! 
But yesterday,—­and yet it seems to me
Something remote, like a pathetic song
Sung long ago by minstrels in the street,—­
But yesterday, as from this tower I gazed,
Over the olive and the walnut trees
Upon the lake and the white ships, and wondered
Whither and whence they steered, and who was in them,
A fisher’s boat drew near the landing-place
Under the oleanders, and the people
Came up from it, and passed beneath the tower,
Close under me.  In front of them, as leader,
Walked one of royal aspect, clothed in white,
Who lifted up his eyes, and looked at me,
And all at once the air seemed filled and living
With a mysterious power, that streamed from him,
And overflowed me with an atmosphere
Of light and love.  As one entranced I stood,
And when I woke again, lo! he was gone;
So that I said:  Perhaps it is a dream. 
But from that very hour the seven demons
That had their habitation in this body
Which men call beautiful, departed from me!

This morning, when the first gleam of the dawn
Made Lebanon a glory in the air,
And all below was darkness, I beheld
An angel, or a spirit glorified,
With wind-tossed garments walking on the lake. 
The face I could not see, but I distinguished
The attitude and gesture, and I knew
’T was he that healed me.  And the gusty wind
Brought to mine ears a voice, which seemed to say: 
Be of good cheer!  ’T is I!  Be not afraid! 
And from the darkness, scarcely heard, the answer: 
If it be thou, bid me come unto thee
Upon the water!  And the voice said:  Come! 
And then I heard a cry of fear:  Lord, save me! 
As of a drowning man.  And then the voice: 
Why didst thou doubt, O thou of little faith! 
At this all vanished, and the wind was hushed,
And the great sun came up above the hills,
And the swift-flying vapors hid themselves
In caverns among the rocks!  Oh, I must find him
And follow him, and be with him forever!

Thou box of alabaster, in whose walls
The souls of flowers lie pent, the precious balm
And spikenard of Arabian farms, the spirits
Of aromatic herbs, ethereal natures
Nursed by the sun and dew, not all unworthy
To bathe his consecrated feet, whose step
Makes every threshold holy that he crosses;
Let us go forth upon our pilgrimage,
Thou and I only!  Let us search for him
Until we find him, and pour out our souls
Before his feet, till all that’s left of us
Shall be the broken caskets that once held us!

X

THE HOUSE OF SIMON THE PHARISEE

A GUEST at table. 
Are ye deceived?  Have any of the Rulers
Believed on him? or do they know indeed
This man to be the very Christ?  Howbeit
We know whence this man is, but when the Christ
Shall come, none knoweth whence he is.