The music of a lion strong That shakes a hill a whole night long, A hill as loud as he, The twitter of a mouse among Melodious greenery, The ruby's and the rainbow's song, The nightingale's--all three, The song of life that wells and flows From every leopard, lark and rose And everything that gleams or goes Lack-lustre in the sea. I heard it all, each, every note Of every lung and tongue and throat, Ay, every rhythm and rhyme Of everything that lives and loves And upward, ever upward moves From lowly to sublime! Earth's multitudinous Sons of Light, I heard them lift their lyric might With each and every chanting sprite That lit the sky that wondrous night As far as eye could climb! I heard it all, I heard the whole Harmonious hymn of being roll Up through the chapel of my soul And at the altar die, And in the awful quiet then Myself I heard, Amen, Amen, Amen I heard me cry! I heard it all, and then although I caught my flying senses, oh, A dizzy man was I! I stood and stared; the sky was lit, The sky was stars all over it, I stood, I knew not why, Without a wish, without a will, I stood upon that silent hill And stared into the sky until My eyes were blind with stars and still I stared into the sky. * * * * * D.H. LAWRENCE SERVICE OF ALL THE DEAD Between the avenues of cypresses, All in their scarlet cloaks, and surplices Of linen, go the chaunting choristers, The priests in gold and black, the villagers. And all along the path to the cemetery The round, dark heads of men crowd silently, And black-scarved faces of women-folk, wistfully Watch at the banner of death, and the mystery. And at the foot of a grave a father stands With sunken head, and forgotten, folded hands; And at the foot of a grave a woman kneels With pale shut face, and neither hears nor feels The coming of the chaunting choristers Between the avenues of cypresses, The silence of the many villagers, The candle-flames beside the surplices. MEETING AMONG THE MOUNTAINS The little pansies by the road have turned Away their purple faces and their gold, And evening has taken all the bees from the thyme, And all the scent is shed away by the cold. Against the hard and pale blue evening sky The mountain's new-dropped summer snow is clear Glistening in steadfast stillness: like transcendent Clean pain sending on us a chill down here. Christ on the Cross!--his beautiful young man's body Has fallen dead upon the nails, and hangs White and loose at last, with all the pain Drawn on his mouth, eyes broken at last by his pangs. And slowly down the mountain road, belated, A bullock wagon comes; so I am ashamed To gaze any more at the Christ, whom the mountain snows Whitely confront; I wait on the grass, am lamed. The breath of the bullock stains the hard, chill air, The band is across its brow, and it scarcely seems To draw the load, so still and slow it moves, While the driver on the shaft sits crouched in dreams.