Creation

As the pregnant womb of night Thrills with imprisoned light, Misty, nebulous-born, Growing deeper into her morn, So man, with no sudden stride, Bloomed into pride.

In the womb of the All-spirit The universe lay; the will Blind, an atom, lay still. The pulse of matter Obeyed in awe And strove to flatter The rhythmic law. But the will grew; nature feared, And cast off the child she reared, Now her rival, instinct-led, With her own powers impregnated.

Brain and heart, blood-fervid flowers, Creation is each act of yours. Your roots are God, the pauseless cause, But your boughs sway to self-windy laws. Perception is no dreamy birth And magnifies transfigured earth. With each new light, our eyes receive A larger power to perceive.

If we could unveil our eyes, Become as wise as the All-wise, No love would be, no mystery: Love and joy dwell in infinity. Love begets love; reaching highest We find a higher still, unseen From where we stood to reach the first; Moses must die to live in Christ, The seed be buried to live to green. Perfection must begin from worst. Christ perceives a larger reachless love, More full, and grows to reach thereof. The green plant yearns for its yellow fruit. Perfection always is a root, And joy a motion that doth feed Itself on light of its own speed, And round its radiant circle runs, Creating and devouring suns.