DOWN ’mid the tangled roots of things
That coil about the central fire,
I seek for that which giveth wings,
To stoop, not soar, to my desire.
Sometimes I hear, as't were a sigh,
The sea’s deep yearning far above.
“ Thou hast the secret not,” I cry,
“ In deeper deeps is hid my Love.”
They think I burrow from the sun,
In darkness, all alone and weak;
Such loss were gain if He were won,
For ’t is the sun’s own Sun I seek.
The earth, they murmur, is the tomb
That vainly sought his life to prison ;
Why grovel longer in its gloom ?
He is not here; He hath arisen.
More life for me where He hath lain
Hidden, while ye believed him dead,
Than in cathedrals cold and vain,
Built on loose sands of “ It is said.”
My search is for the living gold,
Him I desire who dwells recluse,
And not his image, worn and old,
Day-servant of our sordid use.
If Him I find not, yet I find
The ancient joy of cell and church,
The glimpse, the surety undefined,
The unquenched ardor of the search.
Happier to chase a flying goal,
Than to sit counting laurelled gains,
To guess the Soul within the soul,
Than to be lord of what remains.