O little self, within whose smallness lies All that man was, and is, and will become, Atom unseen that comprehends the skies And tells the tracks by which the planets roam. That, without moving, knows the joys of wings, The tiger's strength, the eagle's secrecy, And in the hovel can consort with kings, Or clothe a god with his own mystery. O with what darkness do we cloak thy light, What dusty folly gather thee for food, Thou who alone art knowledge and delight, The heavenly bread, the beautiful, the good. O living self, O god, O morning star, Give us thy light, forgive us what we are. I went into the fields, but you were there Waiting for me, so all the summer flowers Were only glimpses of your starry powers, Beautiful and inspired dust they were. I went down by the waters, and a bird Sang with your voice in all the unknown tones Of all that self of you I have not heard, So that my being felt you to the bones. I went into my house, and shut the door To be alone, but you were there with me; All beauty in a little room may be Though the roof lean and muddy be the floor. Then in my bed I bound my tired eyes To make a darkness for my weary brain, But like a presence you were there again, Being and real, beautiful and wise, So that I could not sleep and cried aloud, "You strange grave thing, what is it you would say?" The redness of your dear lips dimmed to grey, The waters ebbed, the moon hid in a cloud. There are two forms of life, of which one moves, Seeking its meat in many forms of Death, On scales, on wings, on all the myriad hooves Which stamp earth's exultation in quick breath. It rustles through the reeds in shivering fowl, Cries over moors in curlew, glitters green In the lynx' eye, is fearful in the howl Of winter-bitten wolves whose flanks are lean. It takes dumb joy in cattle, it is fierce, It torts the tiger's loin, the eagle's wings, Its tools are claws to smite and teeth to pierce, Arms to destroy, and coils, and poison stings; Wherever earth is quick and life runs red Its mark is death, its meat is something dead. Restless and hungry, still it moves and slays Feeding its beauty on dead beauty's bones, Most merciless in all its million ways, Its breath for singing bought by dying groans, Roving so far with such a zest to kill (Its strongness adding hunger) that at last Its cells attain beyond the cruel skill To where life's earliest impulses are past. Then this creation of the linked lusts, To move and eat, still under their control, Hunts for his prey in thought, his thinking thrusts Through the untrodden jungle of the soul, Through slip and quag, morasses dripping green, Seeking the thing supposed but never seen.