Seraphitus

Alas! that we should not have known, For all his strange ethereal calm, And thoughts so little like our own And presence like a shed-forth balm, He was some Spirit from a zone Of light, and ecstasy, and psalm, Radiant and near about God’s throne: Now he hath flown!

The heaven did cleave on him alway; And for what thing he chose to dwell In a mere tenement of clay With mortal seeming—who can tell? But there in some unearthly way He wrought, and, with an inner spell, Miraculously did array That house of clay.

The very walls were in some sort Made beautiful, with many a fresque Or carven filigree of Thought, Now seen a clear and statuesque Accomplishment of dreams—now sought Through many a lovely arabesque And metaphor, that seemed to sport With what it taught.

Most bright and marvellously fair Those things did seem to all mankind; And some indeed, with no cold stare Beholding them, could lift their mind Through sweet transfigurement to share Their inward light: the rest were blind, And wondered much, yet had small care Whence such things were.

And, day by day, he did invent —As though nought golden were enough, In manner of an ornament— Some high chivalrous deed, above All price, whereof the element Was the most stainless ore of Love; A boundless store of it he spent With lavishment.

And when therewith that house became All in a strange sort glorified; For through whole beauty, as of flame, Those things, resplendent far and wide, Did draw unto them great acclaim; Lo, many a man there was who tried With base alloys to do the same, And gat men’s shame.

But all about that house he set A wondrous flowering thing—his speech, That without ceasing did beget Such fair unearthly blossoms, each Seemed from some paradise, and wet As with an angel’s tears, and each Gave forth some long perfume to let No man forget.

A new delicious music erred For ever through the devious ways Tangled with blooming of each word; As though in that enchanted maze Some sweet and most celestial bird Were caught, and, hid from every gaze, Did there pour forth such song as stirred All men who heard.

Before him was perpetual birth Of flowers whereof, aye, more and more, The world begetteth a sad dearth; And those rare balms man searcheth for, Fair ecstasy, and the soul’s mirth: Half grudgingly the angels bore That one should waste on a lost earth Things of such worth.

It may be, with a strange delight, After an age of gazing through That mirror of things infinite That well nigh burns the veil of blue Drawn down between it and our sight— It may be, with a joy all new, He sought the darkness and the light Of day and night.

It may be, that, upon some wave Which through the incense-laden skies Scarce forced its ripple, there once clave A thin earth-fragrance—in such wise It smote his sense and made him crave For that strange sweet: maybe, likewise, The leaves their subtle perfume gave Up from some grave:

And pleasant did it seem to heap About the heart dim spells that lull Profoundly between death and sleep, To feel mid earthly soothings, dull And sweet, upon the whole sense creep The dream—life-long and wonderful, That hath all souls of men to keep Lest they should weep.

But often, when there seemed to fall Bright shadows of half-blindness, thin, And like fine films wrought over all The flashing sights of Heaven within; While that fair perishable wall Of flesh so barred and shut him in That scarce a silver spirit-call Reached him at all—

O then the Earth failed not to bring, Indeed through many a day and eve— The strength of all her flowering About him; nor forgot to weave, With soft perpetual murmuring, Her spells, that such a sweet way grieve, And hold the heart to each fair thing, Yea, with a sting:

And, sometimes, with strange prevalence He felt those dim enchantments float Most soothingly upon his sense; While faint in memory remote, Brought down the heart knew not from whence, The thought of heaven within him smote— And many a yearning did commence Vague and intense—

Fair part of that unknown disease Of dull material love, whereby The luring flower-semblances Of earthliness and death would try To bind his heart beyond release To each fair mortal sympathy, That Death at length might wholly seize Him with all these.

And, surely, on some shining bed Of flowers in full summer’s gleam; Or when the autumn time had shed Its wealth of perfume and its dream On some rich eve—no thing of dread To all his spirit did it seem, To dream on, feeling sweet earth spread Over his head.

But, one long twilight—hushed and dim— The blue unfathomable clime Of heaven seemed wholly to o’erbrim With presence of the Lord—sublime; And voices of the Seraphim Fell through the ether like a chime: He rose: his past way seemed to him Like a child’s whim.