  IT is new in the air from the sea and the height, New as a nest by a sea-bird fashioned.... O Carmel, thy mound the rock-site!... And roofless our chapel, the home we, impassioned, Have built for her coming, O Gift from the Sea! Elijah, our father, descend to thy mountain, Where once was thy shrine, God created by flame; Where from a land dry in well as in fountain Thou did’st keep vigil—as we—till she came, The Cloud from God’s Bosom, the Grace of His favour, The sweetness of Rain! O balm, oh, the savour Of air on the throat! O Desire from the Sea! Surrounded by roses and lilies of valleys, Sweeter than myrrh, or than balsam in chalice, Queen of the East, O Magnificent, bring The sweetness familiar as rain to man’s cry; Murmur as rain round our hearts lest we die, White Cloud of felicity, Voice to our ears! Girt with vale-lilies and roses a spring-day appears, But Thou, Queen of Carmel, art Spring. Surely the last, we are first in our glory: Splendid out-broke in our desert the story How flame that fell down on our shrine at the call Of our father Elijah had fallen down on all. So Christ is received of us, Carmel receives Him, But after God’s Fire there is hope of God’s Rain. To us art thou come, O Abundance of Rain! Thy little, roofless sanctuary, Queen, Finds us in winds, in sunset or at night, With stars to help our candles, wild and free As Pagans by their Virgin of moonlight, Diana of the Hunters’ rocks: so we Upon the heights, and in the breeze are seen, And called the Brothers of thy lovely name, Blest Mary of Mount Carmel. Asia, cry Her splendour! Cry to her, O Eastern Kings, Encompass her! She is our very own, In mercy manifest to us alone, Our Cloud of Mercy that from seaward springs, And crouched Elijah sought for, sigh on sigh. And for our thanks ... O Eastern Kings, your treasure In this may serve us, that a pearl may lurk, Or in your chests there may be jewel-work That, as she is a Queen, might give her pleasure. We are her monks, we have no precious things. Close round her, Kings! With frankincense and myrrh, Open a fount for her! With cloth of gold proclaim her and enthrone! Afar off we will weep—she is our own. |
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