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
should not separate but relate rather,
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.
[26]
One of us said, how odd,
she is actually standing there,
I wonder what brought her?
another of us said,
have we some power between us,
we three together,
that acts as a sort of magnet,
that attracts the super-natural?
(yet it was all natural enough,
we agreed);
I do not know what I said
or if I said anything,
for before I had time to speak,
I realized I had been dreaming,
that I lay awake now on my bed,
that the luminous light
was the phosphorescent face
of my little clock
and the faint knocking
was the clock ticking.
[27]
And yet in some very subtle way,
she was there more than ever,
as if she had miraculously
related herself to time here,
which is no easy trick, difficult
even for the experienced stranger,
of whom we must be not forgetful
for some have entertained angels unawares.
[28]
I had been thinking of Gabriel,
of the moon-cycle, of the moon-shell,
of the moon-crescent
and the moon at full:
I had been thinking of Gabriel,
the moon-regent, the Angel,
and I had intended to recall him
in the sequence of candle and fire
and the law of the seven;
I had not forgotten
his special attribute
of annunciator; I had thought
to address him as I had the others,
Uriel, Annael;
how could I imagine
the Lady herself would come instead?
[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 missed never 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
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.
[33]
Hermes took his attribute
of Leader-of-the-dead from Thoth
and the T-cross becomes caduceus;
the old-church makes its invocation
to Saint Michael and Our Lady
at the death-bed; Hermes Trismegistus
spears, with Saint Michael,
the darkness of ignorance,
casts the Old Dragon
into the abyss.
[34]
So Saint Michael,
regent of the planet Mercury,
is not absent
when we summon the other Angels,
another candle appears
on the high-altar,
it burns with a potent flame
but quivers
and quickens and darkens
and quickens again;
remember, it was Thoth
with a feather
who weighed the souls
of the dead.
[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.
[39]
But nearer than Guardian Angel
or good Daemon,
she is the counter-coin-side
of primitive terror;
she is not-fear, she is not-war,
but she is no symbolic figure
of peace, charity, chastity, goodness,
faith, hope, reward;
she is not Justice with eyes
blindfolded like Love’s;
I grant you the dove’s symbolic purity,
I grant you her face was innocent
and immaculate and her veils
like the Lamb’s Bride,
but the Lamb was not with her,
either as Bridegroom or Child;
her attention is undivided,
we are her bridegroom and lamb;
her book is our book; written
or unwritten, its pages will reveal
a tale of a Fisherman,
a tale of a jar or jars,
the same—different—the same attributes,
different yet the same as before.
[40]
This is no rune nor symbol,
what I mean is—it is so simple
yet no trick of the pen or brush
could capture that impression;
what I wanted to indicate was
a new phase, a new distinction of colour;
I wanted to say, I did say
there was no sheen, no reflection,
no shadow; when I said white,
I did not mean sculptor’s or painter’s white,
nor porcelain; dim-white could
not suggest it, for when
is fresh-fallen snow (or snow
in the act of falling) dim?
yet even now, we stumble, we are lost—
what can we say?
she was not impalpable like a ghost,
she was not awe-inspiring like a Spirit,
she was not even over-whelming
like an Angel.
[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,
thought 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.
[42]
Some call that deep-deep bell
Zadkiel, the righteousness of God,
he is regent of Jupiter
or Zeus-pater or Theus-pater,
Theus, God; God-the-father, father-god
or the Angel god-father,
himself, heaven yet at home in a star
whose colour is amethyst,
whose candle burns deep-violet
with the others.
[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
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.
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