That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire

Cloud-puffball, torn tufts, tossed pillows | flaunt forth, then chevy on an air-Built thoroughfare: heaven-roysterers, in gay-gangs | they throng; they glitter in marches.Down roughcast, down dazzling whitewash, | wherever an elm arches,Shivelights and shadowtackle ín long | lashes lace, lance, and pair.Delightfully the bright wind boisterous | ropes, wrestles, beats earth bareOf yestertempest's creases; in pool and rutpeel parchesSquandering ooze to squeezed | dough, crúst, dust; stánches, stárchesSquadroned masks and manmarks | treadmire toil thereFoótfretted in it. Million-fuelèd, | nature's bonfire burns on.But quench her bonniest, dearest | to her, her clearest-selvèd sparkMán, how fást his fíredint, | his mark on mind, is gone!Bóth are in an únfáthomable, áll is in an enórmous dárkDrowned. O pity and indig | nation! Manshape, that shoneSheer off, disséveral, a stár, | death blots black out; nor markIs ány of him at áll so stárkBut vastness blurs and time | beats level. Enough! the Resurrection,A héart's-clarion! Awáy grief's gásping, | joyless days, dejection.Across my foundering deck shoneA beacon, an eternal beam. | Flesh fade, and mortal trashFáll to the resíduary worm; | world's wildfire, leave but ash:In a flash, at a trumpet crash,I am all at once what Christ is |, since he was what I am, andThís Jack, jóke, poor pótsherd, | patch, matchwood, immortal diamond,Is immortal diamond.