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.