Into the Vast, the Deep Beyond all mortal sight, The Nothingness that conceived The worlds of day and night, The Nothingness that heaved Pure sides in virgin sleep, Brought out of Darkness, light; And man from out the Deep. V Into that Mystery Let not thine hand be thrust: Nothingness is a world Thy science well may trust ... But lo, a leaf unfurled, Nay, a cry mocking thee From the first grain of dust-- _I am, yet cannot be!_ VI Adventuring un-afraid Into that last deep shrine, Must not the child-heart see Its deepest symbol shine, The world's Birth-mystery, Whereto the suns are shade? Lo, the white breast divine-- The holy Mother-maid! VII How miss that Sacrifice, That cross of Yea and Nay, That paradox of heaven Whose palms point either way, Through each a nail being driven That the arms out-span the skies And our earth-dust this day Out-sweeten Paradise. VIII We part the seamless robe, Our wisdom would divide The raiment of the King, Our spear is in His side, Even while the angels sing Around our perishing globe, And Death re-knits in pride The seamless purple robe. * * * * IX _How grandly glow the bays Purpureally enwound With those rich thorns, the brows How infinitely crowned That now thro' Death's dark house Have passed with royal gaze: Purpureally enwound How grandly glow the bays._ IN MEMORY OF MEREDITH I High on the mountains, who stands proudly, clad with the light of May, Rich as the dawn, deep-hearted as night, diamond-bright as day, Who, while the slopes of the beautiful valley throb with our muffled tread Who, with the hill-flowers wound in her tresses, welcomes our deathless dead? II Is it not she whom he sought so long thro' the high lawns dewy and sweet, Up thro' the crags and the glittering snows faint-flushed with her rosy feet, Is it not she--the queen of our night--crowned by the unseen sun, Artemis, she that can see the light, when light upon earth is none? III Huntress, queen of the dark of the world (no darker at night than noon) Beauty immortal and undefiled, the Eternal sun's white moon, Only by thee and thy silver shafts for a flash can our hearts discern, Pierced to the quick, the love, the love that still thro' the dark doth yearn. IV What to his soul were the hill-flowers, what the gold at the break of day Shot thro' the red-stemmed firs to the lake where the swimmer clove his way, What were the quivering harmonies showered from the heaven-tossed heart of the lark, Artemis, Huntress, what were these but thy keen shafts cleaving the dark? V