Not Far From Ararat

So in their term elect did man and beast
Sleep forty nights under bare rib and rafter,
And eastward float as the dead sun went west;
In the gay dreams that none would remember after,
Flesh on cold flesh that never said a word
Endured the dark that would not be endured;
And lion by gazelle was scoured to bone.
How every mad start and solo of the Lord
(He sang from a bush! Came gushing from a stone!)
Seemed but the weather and that time of year
And nothing in particular.
So did they in the great drift of things sail on,
Their hopes obeying heaven’s, their hearts face down.
And when the rain drummed murmurs on their roof,
They put a soft pigeon out for proof.
If it were all true, and they would be reclaimed,
If at the end the vast beginning seemed
Already long accounted for;
If, unabashed, one of the daughters wore,
About her swelling waist
And hip, the forepaw of a nameless beast,
At last, by the endurance of a dove,
Things as they were were made believable.
On that good morning when they set their table,
The reek of meat rose with their choirs of love.