Over the broken world, the dark gone by, Horror of outcast darkness torn with wars; And timeless agony Of the white fire, heaped high by blinded Stars, Unfaltering, unaghast;-- Out of the midmost Fire At last,--at last,-- Cry! ... O darkness' one desire,-- O darkness, have you heard?-- Black Chaos, blindly striving towards the Word? --The Cry! Behold thy conqueror, Death! Behold, behold from whom It flutters forth, that triumph of First-Breath, Victorious one that can but breathe and cling,-- This pulsing flower,--this weaker than a wing, Halcyon thing!-- Cradled above unfathomable doom. II Under my feet, O Death, Under my trembling feet! Back, through the gates of hell, now give me way. I come.--I bring new Breath! Over the trampled shards of mine own clay, That smoulder still, and burn, Lo, I return! Hail, singing Light that floats Pulsing with chorused motes:-- Hail to thee, Sun, that lookest on all lands! And take thou from my weak undying hands, A precious thing, unblemished, undefiled:-- Here, on my heart uplift, Behold the Gift,-- Thy glory and my glory, and my child! III (_And our eyes were opened; eyes that had been holden. And I saw the world, and the fruits thereof. And I saw their glories, scarlet-stained and golden, All a crumbled dust beneath the feet of Love. And I saw their dreams, all of nothing worth; But a path for Love, for Him to walk above, And I saw new heaven, and new earth._) IV The grass is full of murmurs; The sky is full of wings; The earth is full of breath. With voices, choir on choir With tongues of fire, They sing how Life out-sings-- Out-numbers Death. V Who are these that fly; As doves, and as doves to the windows? Doves, like hovering dreams round Love that slumbereth; Silvering clouds blown by, Doves and doves to the windows,-- Warm through the radiant sky their wings beat breath. They are the world's new-born: Doves, doves to the windows! Lighting, as flakes of snow; Lighting, as flakes of flame; Some to the fair sown furrows; Some to the huts and burrows Choked of the mire and thorn,-- Deep in the city's shame. Wind-scattered wreaths they go, Doves, and doves, to the windows; Some for worshipping arms, to shelter and fold, and shrine; Some to be torn and trodden, Withered and waste, and sodden; Pitiful, sacred leaves from Life's dishonored vine. VI