Poetry Archives

How much of Godhood did it take—
 What purging epochs had to pass,
Ere I was fit for leaf and lake
 And worthy of the patient grass?

What mighty travails must have been,
 What ages must have moulded me,
Ere I was raised and made akin
 To dawn, the daisy and the sea.

In what great struggles was I felled,
 In what old lives I labored long,
Ere I was given a world that held
 A meadow, butterflies and Song?

But oh, what cleansings and what fears,
 What countless raisings from the dead,
Ere I could see Her, touched with tears,
 Pillow the little weary head.