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From “Paracelsus”
I KNEW, I felt, (perception unexpressed, | |
| Uncomprehended by our narrow thought, | |
| But somehow felt and known in every shift | |
| And change in the spirit,—nay, in every pore | |
| Of the body, even,)—what God is, what we are, | 5 |
| What life is—how God tastes an infinite joy | |
| In infinite ways—one everlasting bliss, | |
| From whom all being emanates, all power | |
| Proceeds; in whom is life forevermore, | |
| Yet whom existence in its lowest form | 10 |
| Includes; where dwells enjoyment there is he; | |
| With still a flying point of bliss remote, | |
| A happiness in store afar, a sphere | |
| Of distant glory in full view; thus climbs | |
| Pleasure its heights forever and forever. | 15 |
| The centre-fire heaves underneath the earth, | |
| And the earth changes like a human face; | |
| The molten ore bursts up among the rocks, | |
| Winds into the stone’s heart, outbranches bright | |
| In hidden mines, spots barren river-beds, | 20 |
| Crumbles into fine sand where sunbeams bask— | |
| God joys therein. The wroth sea’s waves are edged | |
| With foam, white as the bitten lip of hate, | |
| When, in the solitary waste, strange groups | |
| Of young volcanos come up, cyclops-like, | 25 |
| Staring together with their eyes on flame— | |
| God tastes a pleasure in their uncouth pride. | |
| Then all is still; earth is a wintry clod: | |
| But spring-wind, like a dancing psaltress, passes | |
| Over its breast to waken it, rare verdure | 30 |
| Buds tenderly upon rough banks, between | |
| The withered tree-roots and the cracks of frost, | |
| Like a smile striving with a wrinkled face; | |
| The grass grows bright, the boughs are swoln with blooms | |
| Like chrysalids impatient for the air, | 35 |
| The shining dorrs are busy, beetles run | |
| Along the furrows, ants make their ado; | |
| Above, birds fly in merry flocks, the lark | |
| Soars up and up, shivering for very joy; | |
| Afar the ocean sleeps; white fishing-gulls | 40 |
| Flit where the strand is purple with its tribe | |
| Of nested limpets; savage creatures seek | |
| Their loves in wood and plain—and God renews | |
| His ancient rapture. Thus he dwells in all, | |
| From life’s minute beginnings, up at last | 45 |
| To man—the consummation of this scheme | |
| Of being, the completion of this sphere | |
| Of life: whose attributes had here and there | |
| Been scattered o’er the visible world before, | |
| Asking to be combined, dim fragments meant | 50 |
| To be united in some wondrous whole, | |
| Imperfect qualities throughout creation, | |
| Suggesting some one creature yet to make, | |
| Some point where all those scattered rays should meet | |
| Convergent in the faculties of man. | 55 |
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