By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept,
That for ages of agony hast endured, and slept,
And wouldst not see.
Fire out of heaven, a flower of perfect fire,
That where the roots of life are had its root
And where the fruits of time are brought forth fruit;
A faith made flesh, a visible desire,
Fly, white butterflies, out to sea,
Frail pale wings for the winds to try,
Small white wings that we scarce can see
Send the stars light, but send not love to me.
I laid my laurel-leaf
At the white feet of grief,
Beyond the hollow sunset, ere a star
Take heart in heaven from eastward, while the west,
Fulfilled of watery resonance and rest,
THE HEART of the rulers is sick, and the high-priest covers his head:
For this is the song of the quick that is heard in the ears of the dead.
Blest in death and life beyond man's guessing
Little children live and die, possest
Still of grace that keeps them past expressing
Mad March, with the wind in his wings wide-spread,
Leaps from heaven, and the deep dawn's arch
Hails re-risen again from the dead