under, till marah-mar
are melted, fuse and join
and change and alter,
mer, mere, mére, mater, Maia, Mary,
Star of the Sea,
Mother.
[16]
Annael—and I remembered the sea-shell
and I remembered the empty lane
and I thought again of people,
daring the blinding rage
of the lightning, and I thought,
there is no shrine, no temple
in the city for that other, Uriel,
and I knew his companion,
companion of the fire-to-endure
was another fire, another candle,
was another of seven,
named among the seven Angels,
Annael,
peace of God.
[17]
So we hail them together,
one to contrast the other,
two of the seven Spirits,
set before God
as lamps on the high-altar,
for one must inexorably
take fire from the other
as spring from winter,
and surely never, never
was a spring more bountiful
than this; never, never
was a season more beautiful,
richer in leaf and colour;
tell me, in what other place
will you find the may flowering
mulberry and rose-purple?
tell me, in what other city
will you find the may-tree
so delicate, green-white, opalescent
like our jewel in the crucible?
[18]
For Uriel, no temple
but everywhere,
the outer precincts and the squares
are fragrant;
the festival opens as before
with the dove’s murmuring;
for Uriel, no temple
but Love’s sacred groves,
withered in Thebes and Tyre,
flower elsewhere.
[19]
We see her visible and actual,
beauty incarnate,
as no high-priest of Astoroth
could compel her
with incense
and potent spell;
we asked for no sign
but she gave a sign unto us;
sealed with the seal of death,
we thought not to entreat her
but prepared us for burial;
then she set a charred tree before us,
burnt and stricken to the heart;
was it may-tree or apple?
[20]
Invisible, indivisible Spirit,
how is it you come so near,
how is it that we dare
approach the high-altar?
we crossed the charred portico,
passed through a frame-doorless —
entered a shrine; like a ghost,
we entered a house through a wall;
then still not knowing
whether (like the wall)
we were there or not-there,
we saw the tree flowering;
it was an ordinary tree
in an old garden-square.
[23]
We are part of it;
we admit the transubstantiation,
not God merely in bread
but God in the other-half of the tree
that looked dead —
did I bow my head?
did I weep? my eyes saw,
it was not a dream
yet it was vision,
it—was a sign,
it was the Angel which redeemed me,
it was the Holy Ghost —
a half-burnt-out apple-tree
blossoming;
this is the flowering of the rood,
this is the flowering of the wood,
where Annael, we pause to give
thanks that we rise again from death and live.
[24]
Every hour, every moment
has its specific attendant Spirit;
the clock-hand, minute by minute,
ticks round its prescribed orbit;
but this curious mechanical perfection
our life, this temporary eclipse
to that other…
[25]
…of the no need
of the moon to shine in it,
for it was ticking minute by minute
(the clock at my bed-head,
with its dim, luminous disc)
when the Lady knocked;
I was talking casually
with friends in the other room,
when we saw the outer hall
grow lighter—then we saw where the door was,
there was no door
(this was a dream, of course),
and she was standing there,
actually, at the turn of the stair.
[29]
We have seen her
the world over,
Our Lady of the Goldfinch,
Our Lady of the Candelabra,
Our Lady of the Pomegranate,
Our Lady of the Chair;
we have seen her, an empress,
magnificent in pomp and grace,
and we have seen her
with a single flower
or a cluster of garden-pinks
in a glass beside her;
we have seen her snood
drawn over her hair,
or her face set in profile
with the blue hood and stars;
we have seen her head bowed down
with the weight of a domed crown
or we have seen her, a wisp of a girl
trapped in a golden halo;
we have seen her with arrow, with doves
and a heart like a valentine;
we have seen her in fine silks imported
from all over the Levant,
and hung with pearls brought
from the city of Constantine;
we have seen her sleeve
of every imaginable shade
of damask and figured brocade;
it is true,
the painters did very well by her;
it is true, they never missed a line
of the suave turn of the head
or subtle shade of lowered eye-lid
or eye-lids half-raised; you find
her everywhere (or did find),
in cathedral, museum, cloister,
at the turn of the palace stair.
[30]
We see her hand in her lap,
smoothing the apple-green
or the apple-russet silk;
we see her hand at her throat,
fingering a talisman
brought by a crusader from Jerusalem;
we see her hand unknot a Syrian veil
or lay down a Venetian shawl
on a polished table that reflects
half a miniature broken column;
we see her stare past a mirror
through an open window,
where boat follows slow boat on the lagoon;
there are white flowers on the water.
[31]
But none of these, none of these
suggest her as I saw her,
though we approach possibly
something of her cool beneficence
in the gracious friendliness
of the marble sea-maids in Venice,
who climb the altar-stair
at Santa Maria dei Miracoli,
or we acclaim her in the name
of another in Vienna,
Maria von dem Schnee,
Our Lady of the Snow.
[32]
For I can say truthfully,
her veils were white as snow,
so as no fuller on earth
can white them; I can say
&
nbsp; she looked beautiful, she looked lovely,
she was clothed with a garment
down to the foot, but it was not
girt about with a golden girdle,
there was no gold, no colour,
there was no gleam in the stuff
nor shadow of hem and seam,
as it fell to the floor; she bore
none of her usual attributes;
the Child was not with her.
[35]
So she must have been pleased with us,
who did not forgo our heritage
at the grave-edge;
she must have been pleased
with the straggling company of the brush and quill
who did not deny their birthright;
she must have been pleased with us,
for she looked so kindly at us
under her drift of veils,
and she carried a book.
[36]
Ah (you say), this is Holy Wisdom,
Santa Sophia, the SS of the Sanctus Spiritus,
so by facile reasoning, logically
the incarnate symbol of the Holy Ghost;
your Holy Ghost was an apple-tree
smouldering—or rather now bourgeoning
with flowers; the fruit of the Tree?
this is the new Eve who comes
clearly to return, to retrieve
what she lost the race,
given over to sin, to death;
she brings the Book of Life, obviously.
[37]
This is a symbol of beauty (you continue),
she is Our Lady universally,
I see her as you project her,
not out of place
flanked by Corinthian capitals,
or in a Coptic nave,
or frozen above the centre door
of a Gothic cathedral;
you have done very well by her
(to repeat your own phrase),
you have carved her tall and unmistakable,
a hieratic figure, the veiled Goddess,
whether of the seven delights,
whether of the seven spear-points.
[38]
O yes—you understand, I say,
this is all most satisfactory,
but she wasn’t hieratic, she wasn’t frozen,
she wasn’t very tall;
she is the Vestal
from the days of Numa,
she carries over the cult
of the Bona Dea,
she carries a book but it is not
the tome of the ancient wisdom,
the pages, I imagine, are the blank pages
of the unwritten volume of the new;
all you say, is implicit,
all that and much more;
but she is not shut up in a cave
like a Sibyl; she is not
imprisoned in leaden bars
in a coloured window;
she is Psyche, the butterfly,
out of the cocoon.
[41]
She carried a book, either to imply
she was one of us, with us,
or to suggest she was satisfied
with our purpose, a tribute to the Angels;
yet though the campanili spoke,
Gabriel, Azrael,
though the campanili answered,
Raphael, Uriel,
though a distant note over-water
chimed Annael, and Michael
was implicit from the beginning,
another, deep, un-named, resurging bell
answered, sounding through them all:
remember, where there was
no need of the moon to shine…
I saw no temple.
[43]
And the point in the spectrum
where all lights become one,
is white and white is not no-colour,
as we were told as children,
but all-colour;
where the flames mingle
and the wings meet, when we gain
the arc of perfection,
we are satisfied, we are happy,
we begin again;
I John saw. I testify
to rainbow feathers, to the span of heaven
and walls of colour,
the colonnades of jasper;
but when the jewel
melts in the crucible,
we find not ashes, not ash-of-rose,
not a tall vase and a staff of lilies,
not vas spirituale,
not rosa mystica even,
but a cluster of garden-pinks
or a face like a Christmas-rose.
This is the flowering of the rod,
this is the flowering of the burnt-out wood,
where, Zadkiel, we pause to give
thanks that we rise again from death and live.
London
May 17-31, 1944.
From The Flowering of the Rod
To Norman Holmes Pearson
…pause to give
thanks that we rise again from death and live.
[1]
O the beautiful garment,
the beautiful raiment —
do not think of His face
or even His hands,
do not think how we will stand
before Him;
remember the snow
on Hermon;
do not look below
where the blue gentian
reflects geometric pattern
in the ice-floe;
do not be beguiled
by the geometry of perfection
for even now,
the terrible banner
darkens the bridge-head;
we have shown
that we could stand;
we have withstood
the anger, frustration,
bitter fire of destruction;
leave the smouldering cities below
(we have done all we could),
we have given until we have no more to give;
alas, it was pity, rather than love, we gave;
now having given all, let us leave all;
above all, let us leave pity
and mount higher
to love — resurrection.
[2]
I go where I love and where I am loved,
into the snow;
I go to the things I love
with no thought of duty or pity;
I go where I belong, inexorably,
as the rain that has lain long
in the furrow; I have given
or would have given
life to the grain;
but if it will not grow or ripen
with the rain of beauty,
the rain will return to the cloud;
the harvester sharpens his steel on the stone;
but this is not our field,
we have not sown this;
pitiless, pitiless, let us leave
The-place-of-a-skull
to those who have fashioned it.
[3]
In resurrection, there is confusion
if we start to argue; if we stand and stare,
we do not know where to go;
in resurrection, there is simple affirmation,
but do not delay to round up the others,
up and down the street; your going
in a moment like this, is the best proof
that you know the way;
does the first wild-goose stop to explain
to the others? no—he is off;
they follow or not
that is their affair;
does the first wild-goose care
whether the others follow or not?
I don’t think so — he is so happy to be off —
he knows where he is going;
so we must be drawn or we must fly,
like the snow-geese of the Arctic circle,
to the Carolinas or to Florida
,
or like those migratory flocks
who still (they say) hover
over the lost island, Atlantis;
seeking what we once knew,
we know ultimately we will find
happiness; to-day shalt thou be
with me in Paradise.
[4]
Blue-geese, white-geese, you may say,
yes, I know this duality, this double nostalgia;
I know the insatiable longing
in winter, for palm-shadow
and sand and burnt sea-drift;
but in the summer, as I watch
the wave till its edge of foam
touches the hot sand and instantly
vanishes like snow on the equator,
I would cry out, stay, stay;
then I remember delicate enduring frost
and its mid-winter dawn-pattern;
in the hot noon-sun, I think of the grey
opalescent winter-dawn; as the wave
burns on the shingle, I think,
you are less beautiful than frost;
but it is also true that I pray,
O, give me burning blue
and brittle burnt sea-weed
above the tide-line,
as I stand, still unsatisfied,
under the long shadow-on-snow of the pine.
[5]
Satisfied, unsatisfied,
satiated or numb with hunger,
this is the eternal urge,
this is the despair, the desire to equilibrate
the eternal variant;
you understand that insistent calling,
that demand of a given moment,
the will to enjoy, the will to live,
not merely the will to endure,
the will to flight, the will to achievement,