By the Window

STILL deep into the West I gazed; the light  
Clear, spiritual, tranquil as a bird  
Wide-winged that soars on the smooth gale and sleeps,  
Was it from sun far-set or moon unrisen?  
Whether from moon, or sun, or angel’s face  
It held my heart from motion, stayed my blood,  
Betrayed each rising thought to quiet death  
Along the blind charm’d way to nothingness,  
Lull’d the last nerve that ached. It was a sky  
Made for a man to waste his will upon,  
To be received as wiser than all toil,  
And much more fair. And what was strife of men?  
And what was time?  
 
 Then came a certain thing.  
Are intimations for the elected soul  
Dubious, obscure, of unauthentic power  
Since ghostly to the intellectual eye,  
Shapeless to thinking? Nay, but are not we  
Servile to words and an usurping brain,  
Infidels of our own high mysteries,  
Until the senses thicken and lose the world,  
Until the imprisoned soul forgets to see,  
And spreads blind fingers forth to reach the day,  
Which once drank light, and fed on angels’ food?  
 
It happened swiftly, came and straight was gone.  
 
One standing on some aery balcony  
And looking down upon a swarming crowd  
Sees one man beckon to him with finger-tip  
While eyes meet eyes; he turns and looks again—  
The man is lost, and the crowd sways and swarms.  
Shall such an one say, ‘Thus ’tis proved a dream,  
And no hand beckoned, no eyes met my own?’  
Neither can I say this. There was a hint,  
A thrill, a summons faint yet absolute,  
Which ran across the West; the sky was touch’d,  
And failed not to respond. Does a hand pass  
Lightly across your hair? you feel it pass  
Not half so heavy as a cobweb’s weight,  
Although you never stir; so felt the sky  
Not unaware of the Presence, so my soul  
Scarce less aware. And if I cannot say  
The meaning and monition, words are weak  
Which will not paint the small wing of a moth,  
Nor bear a subtile odour to the brain,  
And much less serve the soul in her large needs.  
I cannot tell the meaning, but a change  
Was wrought in me; it was not the one man  
Who came to the luminous window to gaze forth,  
And who moved back into the darkened room  
With awe upon his heart and tender hope;  
From some deep well of life tears rose; the throng  
Of dusty cares, hopes, pleasures, prides fell off,  
And from a sacred solitude I gazed  
Deep, deep into the liquid eyes of Life.