AT
THE MAKING OF MAN
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FIRST
all the host of Raphael
In liveries of gold,
Lifted the chorus on whose rhythm
The spinning spheres are rolled,—
The Seraphs of the morning clam
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| Whose
hearts are never cold.
He shall be born a spirit,
Part of the soul that yearns,
The core of vital gladness
That suffers and discerns,
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The
stir that breaks the budding sheath
When the green spring returns,—
The gist of power and patience
Hid in the plasmic clay,
The calm behind the senses,
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The
passionate essay
To make his wise and lovely dream
Immortal on a day.
The soft Aprilian ardors
That warm the waiting loam
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Shall
whisper in his pulses
To bid him overcome,
And he shall learn the wonder-cry
Beneath the azure dome.
And though all-dying nature
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Should
teach him to deplore,
The ruddy fires of autumn
Shall lure him but the more
To pass from joy to stronger joy,
As through an open door.
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He shall have hope and honor,
Proud trust and courage stark,
To hold him to his purpose
Through the unlighted dark,
And love that sees the moon’s full orb
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| In the
first silver arc.
And he shall live by kindness
And the heart’s certitude,
Which moves without misgiving
In ways not understood,
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Sure
only of the vast event,—
The large and simple good.
Then Gabriel’s host in silver gear
And vesture twilight blue,
The spirits of immortal mind,
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The
warders of the true,
Took up the theme that gives the world
Significance anew.
He shall be born to reason,
And have the primal need
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To understand
and follow
Wherever truth may lead,—
To grow in wisdom like a tree
Unfolding from a seed.
A watcher by the sheepfolds,
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With
wonder in his eyes,
He shall behold the seasons,
And mark the planets rise,
Till all the marching firmament
Shall rouse his vast surmise.
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Beyond the sweep of vision,
Or utmost reach of sound,
This cunning fire-maker,
This tiller of the ground,
Shall learn the secrets of the suns
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| And
fathom the profound.
For he must prove all being
Sane, beauteous, benign,
And at the heart of nature
Discover the divine,—
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Himself
the type and symbol
Of the eternal trine.
He shall perceive the kindling
Of knowledge, far and dim,
As of the fire that brightens
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Below
the dark sea-rim,
When ray by ray the splendid sun
Floats to the world’s wide brim.
And out of primal instinct,
The lore of lair and den,
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He shall
emerge to question
How, wherefore, whence, and when,
Till the last frontier of the truth
Shall lie within his ken.
Then Michael’s scarlet-suited host
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Took
up the word and sang;
As though a trumpet had been loosed
In heaven, the arches rang;
For these were they who feel the thrill
Of beauty like a pang.
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He shall be framed and balanced
For loveliness and power,
Lithe as the supple creatures,
And colored as a flower,
Sustained by the all-feeding earth,
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| Nurtured
by wind and shower,
To stand within the vortex
Where surging forces play,
A poised and pliant figure
Immutable as they,
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Till
time and space and energy
Surrender to his sway.
He shall be free to journey
Over the teeming earth,
An insatiable seeker,
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A wanderer
from his birth,
Clothed in the fragile veil of sense,
With fortitude for girth.
His hands shall have dominion
Of all created things,
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To fashion
in the likeness
Of his imaginings,
To make his will and thought survive
Unto a thousand springs.
The world shall be his province,
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The
princedom of his skill;
The tides shall wear his harness,
The winds obey his will;
Till neither flood, nor fire, nor frost,
Shall work to do him ill.
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A creature fit to carry
The pure creative fire,
Whatever truth inform him,
Whatever good inspire,
He shall make lovely in all things
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| To the
end of his desire. |
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