That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the comfort of the Resurrection

  • That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire and of the comfort of the Resurrection

  • Cloud-puffball, torn tufts, tossed pillows | flaunt forth, then chevy on an air-
  • built thoroughfare: heaven-roysterers, in gay-gangs | they throng; they glitter in marches.
  • Down roughcast, down dazzling whitewash, | wherever an elm arches,
  • Shivelights and shadowtackle in long | lashes lace, lance, and pair.
  • Delightfully the bright wind boisterous | ropes, wrestles, beats earth bare
  • Of yestertempest’s creases; in pool and rut peel parches
  • Squandering ooze to squeezed | dough, crust, dust; stanches, starches
  • Squadroned masks and manmarks | treadmire toil there
  • Footfretted in it.   Million-fuelèd, | nature’s bonfire burns on.
  • But quench her bonniest, dearest | to her, her clearest-selvèd spark
  • Man, how fast his firedint, | his mark on mind, is gone!
  • Both are in an unfathomable, all is in an enormous dark
  • Drowned. O pity and indig | nation! Manshape, that shone
  • Sheer off, disseveral, a star, | death blots black out; nor mark
  • Is any of him at all so stark
  • But vastness blurs and time | beats level. Enough! the Resurrection,
  • A heart’s-clarion! Away grief’s gasping, | joyless days, dejection.
  • Across my foundering deck shone
  • A beacon, an eternal beam. | Flesh fade, and mortal trash
  • Fall to the residuary worm; | world’s wildfire, leave but ash:
  • In a flash, at a trumpet crash,
  • I am all at once what Christ is, | since he was what I am, and
  • This Jack, joke, poor potsherd, | patch, matchwood, immortal diamond,
  • Is immortal diamond.
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