  On the High Feast Day in that reverent space Between the Sacrifice and the word of Grace, I, come to town with a merry-making throng To pay my tithes and join in the season’s song, Closing my eyes, there prayed—and was hurried far Beyond what ages I know not, or what star, To a land of thought remote from the breastplate glint And the white bull’s blood that flows from the knife of flint, Then, in this movement, being not I but part In the fellowship of the universal heart, 10 I sucked a strength from the primal fount of strength, I thought and worked omnipotence. At length Hit in my high flight by some sorry thought Back to the sweat of the soil-bound I was caught And asked in pique what enemy had worked this, What folly or anger thrust against my bliss? Then I grew aware of the savour of sandal-wood With noise of a distant fluting, and one who stood Nudging my elbow breathed “Oh, miracle! See!” The folk gape wonder, urge tumultuously, 20 They fling them down on their faces every one, Some joyfully weep, others for anguish moan. Lo, the tall gilt image of God at the altar niche Wavers and stirs, we see his raiment twitch. Now he stands and signs benediction with his rod. The courtyard quakes, the fountains gush with blood. The whistling scurry and throb of spirit wings Distresses man and child. Now a bird-voice sings, And a loud throat bellows, that every creature hears, It babbles an antique tongue, and threatening, pleads Prompt sacrifice and a care for priestly needs, Wholeness of heart, the putting away of wrath, A generous measure for wine, for oil, for cloth, A holding fast to the law that the Stones ordain, And the rites of the Temple watch that ye maintain Lest fire and ashes down from the mountain rain! With expectance of goodly harvest and rain in Spring To such as perform the will of the Jealous King. To his priestly servants hearken! The syllables die. 40 Now up from the congregation issues a sigh As of stopped breath slow released. But here stands one Who has kept his feet though the others fell like stone, Who prays with outstretched palms, standing alone, To a God who is speechless, not to be known by touch, By sight, sound, scent. And I cry, “Not overmuch Do I love this juggling blasphemy, O High Priest. Or do you deny your part here? Then, at least, An honest citizen of this honest town May preach these nightmare apparitions down, 50 These blundering, perfumed noises come to tell No more than a priest-instructed folk knows well. Out, meddlesome Imps, whatever Powers you be, Break not true prayer between my God and me.” |
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