Spouts the Fount and Lure o’ the chase. Fount unresting, Lure divine! There meet all: too late look most. Fire in water hued as wine, Springs amid a shadowy host; Circled: one close-headed mob, Breathless, scanning divers heaps Where a Heart begins to throb, Where it ceases, slow, with leaps And ’tis very strange, ’tis said, How you spy in each of them Semblance of that Dragon red, As the oak in bracken-stem. And ’tis said how each and each: Which commences, which subsides: First my Dragon! doth beseech Her who food for all provides. And she answers with no sign; Utters neither yea nor nay; Fires the water hued as wine; Kneads another spark in clay. Terror is about her hid; Silence of the thunders locked; Lightnings lining the shut lid; Fixity on quaking rocked. Lo, you look at Flow and Drought Interflashed and interwrought: Ended is begun, begun Ended, quick as torrents run. Young Impulsion spouts to sink; Luridness and lustre link; ’Tis your come and go of breath; Mirrored pants the Life, the Death; Each of either reaped and sown: Rosiest rosy wanes to crone. See you so? your senses drift; ’Tis a shuttle weaving swift. Look with spirit past the sense, Spirit shines in permanence. That is She, the view of whom Is the dust within the tomb, Is the inner blush above, Look to loathe, or look to love; Think her Lump, or know her Flame; Dread her scourge, or read her aim; Shoot your hungers from their nerve; Or, in her example, serve. Some have found her sitting grave; Laughing, some; or, browed with sweat, Hurling dust of fool and knave In a hissing smithy’s jet. More it were not well to speak; Burn to see, you need but seek. Once beheld she gives the key Airing every doorway, she. Little can you stop or steer Ere of her you are the sëer. On the surface she will witch, Rendering Beauty yours, but gaze Under, and the soul is rich Past computing, past amaze. Then is courage that endures Even her awful tremble yours. Then, the reflex of that Fount Spied below, with Reason mount Lordly and a quenchless force, Lighting Pain to its mad source, Scaring Fear till Fear escapes, Shot through all its phantom shapes. Then your spirit will perceive Fleshly seed of fleshly sins; Where the passions interweave, How the serpent tangle spins Of the sense of Earth misprised, Brainlessly unrecognised; She being Spirit in her clods, Footway to the God of Gods. Then for you are pleasures pure, Sureties as the stars are sure: Not the wanton beckoning flags Which, of flattery and delight, Wax to the grim Habit-Hags Riding souls of men to night: Pleasures that through blood run sane, Quickening spirit from the brain. Each of each in sequent birth, Blood and brain and spirit, three (Say the deepest gnomes of Earth), Join for true felicity. Are they parted, then expect