C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Creation
By Alfred Noyes (1880–1958)
I
But heaven, one Majesty of Light,
Beyond all speech, beyond all thought,
Beyond all depth, beyond all height,
Consummate heaven, the first and last,
Enfolding in its perfect prime
No future rushing to the past,
But one rapt Now, that knew not Space or Time.
And void—but with that complete Life
Where music could no wings unfold
Till lo, God smote the strings of strife!
“Myself unto Myself am Throne,
Myself unto Myself am Thrall
I that am All am all alone,”
He said, “Yea, I have nothing, having all.”
The angel-squadrons of His will,
He said, “One battle yet there is
To win, one vision to fulfil!
Since heaven where’er I gaze expands,
And power that knows no strife or cry,
Weakness shall bind and pierce My hands
And make a world for Me wherein to die.
Being Mine, I must descend and make
Out of My heart a song, a story
Of little hearts that burn and break;
Out of My passion without end
I will make little azure seas,
And into small sad fields descend
And make green grass, white daisies, rustling trees.”
His arms out East and West and gave
For every little dream of dust
Part of His life as to a grave!
“Enough, O Father, for Thy words
Have pierced Thy hands!” But, low and sweet,
He said, “Sunsets and streams and birds,
And drifting clouds!”—The purple stained His feet.—
“Father, Thy words have pierced Thy side!
He whispered, “Roses shall grow there,
And there must be a hawthorn-tide,
And ferns, dewy at dawn,” and still
They moaned—“Enough, the red drops bleed!”
“And,” sweet and low, “on every hill,”
He said, “I will have flocks and lambs to lead.”
Their wings till that great pang was gone:
“Pour not Thy soul out unto Death!”
They moaned, and still His Love flowed on,
“There shall be small white wings to stray
From bliss to bliss, from bloom to bloom,
And blue flowers in the wheat; and—” “Stay!
Speak not,” they cried, “the word that seals Thy tomb!
That I will have there to embark
On small adventures in the wild,
And front slight perils in the dark;
And I will hide from him and lure
His laughing eyes with suns and moons,
And rainbows that shall not endure;
And—when he is weary, sing him drowsy tunes.
“Enough! Tempt not the Gates of Hell!
He said, “His soul is in his keeping
That we may love each other well,
And lest the dark too much affright him,
I will strow countless little stars
Across his childish skies to light him
That he may wage in peace his mimic wars;
With swords and childish merchandize,
Or with his elfin balance weighs,
Or with his foot-rule metes, the skies;
Or builds his castles by the deep,
Or tunnels through the rocks, and then—
Turn to Me as he falls asleep,
And, in his dreams, feel for My hand again.
My friend and walk here at My side;
Or—when he wills—grow young with Me,
And, to that happy world where once we died
Descending through the calm blue weather,
Buy life once more with our immortal breath,
And wander through the little fields together,
And taste of Love and Death.”