A dark and a weary thing is come on our head—
To search obedience out in the bosom of sin,
To listen deep for love when thunders the curse;
For O my jove, behold where the Lord hath planted
In every star in the midst His dangerous Tree!
Still I must pluck thereof and bring unto thee,
Saying, "The coolness for which all night we have panted;
Taste of the goodly thing, I have tasted first!"
Bringing us noway coolness, but burning thirst,
Giving us noway peace, but implacable strife,
Loosing upon us the wounding joy and the wasting sorrow of life!
I am the Woman, ark of the Law and sacred arm to uphear it,
Heathen trumpet to overthrow and idolatrous sword to shear it:
Yea, she whose arm was round the neck of the morning star at song,
Is she who kneeleth now in the dust and cries at the secret door,
"Open to me, O sleeping mother! The gate is heavy and strong.
"Open to me, I am come at last; be wroth with thy child no more.
"Let me lie down with thee there in the dark, and be slothful with thee as before!"
[6]
