|
| WILD air, world-mothering air, |
|
| Nestling me everywhere, |
|
| That each eyelash or hair |
|
| Girdles; goes home betwixt |
|
| The fleeciest, frailest-flixed |
5 |
| Snowflake; that ’s fairly mixed |
|
| With, riddles, and is rife |
|
| In every least thing’s life; |
|
| This needful, never spent, |
|
| And nursing element; |
10 |
| My more than meat and drink, |
|
| My meal at every wink; |
|
| This air, which, by life’s law, |
|
| My lung must draw and draw |
|
| Now but to breathe its praise, |
15 |
| Minds me in many ways |
|
| Of her who not only |
|
| Gave God’s infinity |
|
| Dwindled to infancy |
|
| Welcome in womb and breast, |
20 |
| Birth, milk, and all the rest |
|
| But mothers each new grace |
|
| That does now reach our race— |
|
| Mary Immaculate, |
|
| Merely a woman, yet |
25 |
| Whose presence, power is |
|
| Great as no goddess’s |
|
| Was deemèd, dreamèd; who |
|
| This one work has to do— |
|
| Let all God’s glory through, |
30 |
| God’s glory which would go |
|
| Through her and from her flow |
|
| Off, and no way but so. |
|
|
| I say that we are wound |
|
| With mercy round and round |
35 |
| As if with air: the same |
|
| Is Mary, more by name. |
|
| She, wild web, wondrous robe, |
|
| Mantles the guilty globe, |
|
| Since God has let dispense |
40 |
| Her prayers his providence: |
|
| Nay, more than almoner, |
|
| The sweet alms’ self is her |
|
| And men are meant to share |
|
| Her life as life does air. |
45 |
| If I have understood, |
|
| She holds high motherhood |
|
| Towards all our ghostly good |
|
| And plays in grace her part |
|
| About man’s beating heart, |
50 |
| Laying, like air’s fine flood, |
|
| The deathdance in his blood; |
|
| Yet no part but what will |
|
| Be Christ our Saviour still. |
|
| Of her flesh he took flesh: |
55 |
| He does take fresh and fresh, |
|
| Though much the mystery how, |
|
| Not flesh but spirit now |
|
| And makes, O marvellous! |
|
| New Nazareths in us, |
60 |
| Where she shall yet conceive |
|
| Him, morning, noon, and eve; |
|
| New Bethlems, and he born |
|
| There, evening, noon, and morn— |
|
| Bethlem or Nazareth, |
65 |
| Men here may draw like breath |
|
| More Christ and baffle death; |
|
| Who, born so, comes to be |
|
| New self and nobler me |
|
| In each one and each one |
70 |
| More makes, when all is done, |
|
| Both God’s and Mary’s Son. |
|
| Again, look overhead |
|
| How air is azurèd; |
|
| O how! nay do but stand |
75 |
| Where you can lift your hand |
|
| Skywards: rich, rich it laps |
|
| Round the four fingergaps. |
|
| Yet such a sapphire-shot, |
|
| Charged, steepèd sky will not |
80 |
| Stain light. Yea, mark you this: |
|
| It does no prejudice. |
|
| The glass-blue days are those |
|
| When every colour glows, |
|
| Each shape and shadow shows. |
85 |
| Blue be it: this blue heaven |
|
| The seven or seven times seven |
|
| Hued sunbeam will transmit |
|
| Perfect, not alter it. |
|
| Or if there does some soft, |
90 |
| On things aloof, aloft, |
|
| Bloom breathe, that one breath more |
|
| Earth is the fairer for. |
|
| Whereas did air not make |
|
| This bath of blue and slake |
95 |
| His fire, the sun would shake, |
|
| A blear and blinding ball |
|
| With blackness bound, and all |
|
| The thick stars round him roll |
|
| Flashing like flecks of coal, |
100 |
| Quartz-fret, or sparks of salt, |
|
| In grimy vasty vault. |
|
| So God was god of old: |
|
| A mother came to mould |
|
| Those limbs like ours which are |
105 |
| What must make our daystar |
|
| Much dearer to mankind; |
|
| Whose glory bare would blind |
|
| Or less would win man’s mind. |
|
| Through her we may see him |
110 |
| Made sweeter, not made dim, |
|
| And her hand leaves his light |
|
| Sifted to suit our sight. |
|
| Be thou then, O thou dear |
|
| Mother, my atmosphere; |
115 |
| My happier world, wherein |
|
| To wend and meet no sin; |
|
| Above me, round me lie |
|
| Fronting my froward eye |
|
| With sweet and scarless sky; |
120 |
| Stir in my ears, speak there |
|
| Of God’s love, O live air, |
|
| Of patience, penance, prayer: |
|
| World-mothering air, air wild, |
|
| Wound with thee, in thee isled, |
125 |
| Fold home, fast fold thy child. |
|
|
| See Notes. |
Borrowed from Bartleby.com
Great Books Online,
a wonderful resource. |
