For as I hear, the singing makes of me
My own desire, and momently I grow. 
Yea, all the while with hands of melody,
The singing makes me, out of what I was,
Even as a potter shaping Eden clay.

Ever Love sings, and saith in words that sing,
’Beloved, thus art thou; and even so
Lovely art thou, Beloved!’—­Even so,
As the Sea weaves her path before the light,
I hear, I hear, and I am glorified.

Love sang to me, and I am glorified
Because of some commandment in the stars. 
And I shall grow in favour and in shining,
Till at the last I am all-beautiful;
Beautiful, for the day Love sings no more.

THE FEASTER

Oh, who will hush that cry outside the doors,
  While we are glad within? 
Go forth, go forth, all you my servitors;
  (And gather close, my kin.)
Go out to her.  Tell her we keep a feast,—­
  Lost Loveliness who will not sit her down
    Though we implore. 
It is her silence binds me unreleased,
  It is her silence that no flute can drown,
    It is her moonlit silence at the door,
Wide as the whiteness, but a fire on high
  That frights my heart with an immortal Cry,
    Calling me evermore.

Louder, you viols;—­louder, O my harp;
  Let me not hear her voice;
And drown her keener silence, silver-sharp,
  With waves of golden noise! 
For she is wise as Eden, even mute,
  To search my spirit through the deep and height
        Again, again. 
Outpierce her with your singing, dawnlike flute;
  And you, gloom over, viols of the night
     With colors lost in umber,—­with sweet pain
Of richest world’s desire,—­prevail, sing down
  All memory with pleading, so you drown
    Her merciless refrain!

Oh, can you not with music, nor with din,
    Save me the stress and stir
In my lone spirit, throned among my kin,
    From that same voice of her?—­
The never ending query she hath had
  Only to wake my Soul, and only then
    Wake it to weep? 
With ‘Why?’ and ’Art thou happy?  Art thou glad? 
  And hast thou fellowship with fellow-men?’
  So, through my mirth and underneath my sleep;
Her voice,—­abysmal hunger unfulfilled;—­
The calling, calling, never to be stilled,—­
    Calling of deep to deep.

But I have that shall fill this wound of mine,
    Since Loveliness must be;—­
Since Loveliness must save us, or we pine
    And perish utterly. 
All that the years have left us, undismayed
  Of age or death; and happier fair than truth,
    —­When truth is fair! 
Shapes of immortal sweetness, to persuade
  Iron and fire and marble to their youth;
Wild graces trapped from the three kingdoms’ lair
  Of wildest Beauty; shadow and smile and hush;
    —­Fleet color, of a daybreak, of a blush,
        For my sad soul to wear!