By George William Russell
I begin through the grass once again to be bound to the Lord;
I can see, through a face that has faded, the face full of rest
Of the Earth, of the Mother, my heart with her heart in accord:
As I lie mid the cool green tresses that mantle her breast
I begin with the grass once again to be bound to the Lord.
By the hand of a child I am led to the throne of the King,
For a touch that now fevers me not is forgotten and far,
And His infinite sceptred hands that sway us can bring
Me in dreams from the laugh of a child to the song of a star.
On the laugh of a child I am borne to the joy of the King.
Well, when all is said and done
Best within my narrow way,
May some angel of the sun
Muse memorial o’er my clay:
‘Here was beauty all betrayed
From the freedom of her state;
From her human uses stayed
On an idle rhyme to wait.
Ah, what deep despair might move
If the beauty lit a smile,
Or the heart was warm with love
That was pondering the while.
He has built his monument
With the winds of time at strife,
Who could have before he went
Written in the book of life.
To the stars from which he came
Empty handed he goes home;
He who might have wrought in flame
Only traced upon the foam.’