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Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MICHAEL, by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL Poem Explanation Poet's Biography First Line: A wind blew by from icy hills Alternate Author Name(s): A. E. | |||
A wind blew by from icy hills, Shook with cold breath the daffodils, And shivered as with silver mist The lake's pale leaden amethyst. It pinched the barely budded trees And rent the twilight tapestries: Left for one hallowed instant bare A single star in lonely air O'er stony lanes the bitter wind Had swept of all their human kind. Ere that the fisher folk were all Snug under thatch and sheltering wall, Breathing the cabin's air of gold, Safe from blue storm and nipping cold. And, clustered round the hearth within, With fiery hands and burnished chin, They sat and listened to old tales, Or legends of gigantic gales. Some told of phantom craft they knew That sailed with a flame-colored crew, And came up strangely through the wind Havens invisible to find By those rare cities poets sung, Cresting the Islands of the Young. How do the heights above our head, The depths below the water spread, Waken the spirit in such wise That to the deep the deep replies, And in far spaces of the soul The oceans stir, the heavens roll? Michael must leave the morrow morn The countryside where he was born; And all day long had Michael clung Unto the kin he lived among. But at some talk of sea and sky He heard an older mother cry. The cabin's golden air grew dim: The cabin's walls drew down on him: The cabin's rafters hid from sight The cloudy rooftree of the night. And Michael could not leave behind His kinsmen of the wave and wind Without farewell. The way he took Ran like a twisted, shining brook, Speckled with stones and ruts and rills, 'Mid a low valley of dark hills, And trees so tempest-bowed that they Seemed to seek double root in clay. At last the dropping valley turned: A sky of murky citron burned. Above through flying purples seen Lay pools of heavenly blue and green. From the sea rim unto the caves, Rolled on a mammoth herd of waves. While all about the rocky bay Leaped up gray forests of wild spray, Glooming above the ledges brown Ere their pale drift came drenching down. Things delicate and dewy clung To Michael's cheeks. The salt air stung. From crag to crag did Michael leap Until he overhung the deep; Saw in vast caves the waters roam, The ceaseless ecstasy of foam, Whirlpools of opal, lace of light Strewn over quivering malachite, Ice-tinted mounds of water rise Glinting as with a million eyes, Reel in and out of light and shade, Show depths of ivory or jade, New broidery every instant wear, Spun by the magic weaver, Air. Then Michael's gaze was turned from these Unto the far, rejoicing seas, Whose twilight legions onward rolled, A turbulence of dusky gold, A dim magnificence of froth, A thunder tone which was not wrath, But such a speech as earth might cry Unto far kinsmen in the sky. The spray was tossed aloft in air: A bird was flying here and there. Foam, bird, and twilight to the boy Seemed to be but a single joy. He closed his eyes that he might be Alone with all that ecstasy. What was it unto Michael gave This joy, the life of earth and wave? Or did his candle shine so bright But by its own and natural light? Ah, who can answer for what powers Are with us in the secret hours! Though wind and wave cried out no less, Entranced into forgetfulness, He heard no more the water's din; A golden ocean rocked within. A boat of bronze and crystal wrought And steered by the enchanter, Thought, Was flying with him fast and far To isles that glimmered, each a star Hung low upon the distant rim, And then the vision rushed on him. The palaces of light were there, With towers that faded up in air, With amethyst and silver spires. And casements lit with precious fires, And mythic forms with wings outspread, And faces from which light was shed. High upon gleaming pillars set, On turret and on parapet, The bells were chiming all around And the sweet air was drunk with sound. Too swift did Michael pass to see Ildathich's mystic chivalry Graved on the walls, its queens and kings Girt round with eyes and stars and wings The magic boat with Michael drew To some deep being that he knew, Some mystery that to the wise Is clouded o'er by Paradise. Some will that would not let him stay Hurried the boat away, away. At last its fiery wings were still, Folded beneath some heavenly hill. But was that Michael light as air Was traveling up the mighty stair? Or had impetuous desire Woven for him that form of fire, Which with no less a light did shine Than those with countenance divine, Who thronged the gateway as he came, Faces of rapture and of flame, The glowing, deep, unwavering eyes Of those eternity makes wise. And lofty things to him were said As to one risen from the dead. What, there beyond the gate befell Michael could never after tell. Imagination still would fail Some height too infinite to scale, Some being too profound to scan, Some time too limitless to span. Yet when he lifted up his eyes That foam was gray against the skies, That same wild bird was on the wing, That twilight wave was glimmering. And twilight wave and foam and bird Had hardly in his vision stirred Since he had closed his eyes to be Of that majestic company. And can a second then suffice To hurry us to Paradise? What seemed so endlessly sublime Shrink to a particle of time? Why was the call on Michael made? What charge was on his spirit laid? And could the way for him be sure Made by excess of light obscure? However fiery is the dream, How faint in life the echoing gleam! And faint was all that happed that day As home he went his dreamy way. And now has Michael, for his share Of life, the city's dingy air, By the black reek of chimneys smudged O'er the dark warehouse where he drudged, Where for dull life men pay in toll Toil and the shining of the soul. Within his attic he would fret Like a wild creature in a net, And on the darkness he would make The jewel of a little lake, A bloom of fairy blue amid The bronze and purple heather hid; Make battlemented cliffs grow red Where the last rose of day was shed, Be later in rich darkness seen Against a sky of glowing green. Or he would climb where quiet fills With dream the shepherd on the hills, Where he could see as from high land The golden sickle of the sand, Curving around the bay to where The granite cliffs were worn by air, And watch the wind and waves at play, The heavenly gleam of falling spray, The sunlit surges foam below In wrinklings as of liquid snow. And he could breathe the airs that blew From worlds invisible he knew: How far away now from the boy! How unassailable their joy! So Michael would recall each place As lovers a remembered face. But, though the tender may not tire, Memory is but a fading fire. And Michael's might have sunken low, Changed to gray ash its colored glow, Did not upon his hearing fall The mountain speech of Donegal, And that he swiftly turned to greet The tongue whose accent was so sweet; And found one of that eager kind, The army of the Gaelic mind, Still holding through the Iron Age The spiritual heritage, The history from the gods that ran Through many a circle down to man And soon with them had Michael read The story of the famous dead, From him who with his single sword Stayed a great army at the ford, Down to the vagrant poets, those Who gave their hearts to the Dark Rose; And of the wanderers who set sail And found a lordlier Innisfail, And saw a sun that never set And all their hearts' desires were met. How may the past, if it be dead, Its light within the living shed? Or does the Ever-living hold Earth's memories from the Age of Gold? And are our dreams, ardors, and fires But ancient unfulfilled desires? And do they shine within our clay, And do they urge us on their way? As Michael read the Gaelic scroll It seemed the story of the soul; And those who wrought, lest there should From earth the legend of the Gael, Seemed warriors of Eternal Mind, Still holding in a world grown blind. From which belief and hope had gone, The lovely magic of its dawn. Thrice on the wheel of time recurred The season of the risen Lord Since Michael left his home behind And faced the chilly Easter wind, And saw the twilight waters gleam And dreamed an unremembered dream. Was it because the Easter time With mystic nature was in chime That memory was roused from sleep, Or was deep calling unto deep? The lord in man had risen here, From the dark sepulchre of fear, Was willful, laughing, undismayed, Though on a fragile barricade The bullet rang, the death star broke, The street waved dizzily in smoke, And there the fierce and lovely breath Of flame in the gray mist was death. Yet Michael felt within him rise The rapture that is sacrifice. What miracle was wrought on him, So that each leaden-freighted limb Seemed lit with fire, seemed light as air? How came upon him dying there, Amid the city's burning piles, The vision of the mystic isles? For underneath and through the smoke A glint of golden waters broke: And floated on that phantom tide, With fiery wings expanded wide, A bark of bronze and crystal wrought And steered by the enchanter, Thought. And noble faces glowed above, Faces of ecstasy and love, And eyes whose shining calm and pure Was in eternity secure, And lofty forms of burnished air Stood on the deck by Michael there. And spirit upon spirit gazed, And one to Michael's lips upraised A cup filled from that Holy Well On which the Nuts of Wisdom fell. And as he drank there reeled away Vision of earth and night and day, And he was far away from these, Afloat upon the heavenly seas I do not know if such a band Came from the Many-Colored Land: Or whether in our being we Make such a magic phantasy Of images which draw us hence Unto our own magnificence. Yet many a one a tryst has kept With the immortal while he slept, Woke unremembering, went his way. Life seemed the same from day to day, Till the predestined hour came, A hidden will leaped up in flame, And through its deed the risen soul Strode on self-conquering to the goal. This was the dream of one who died For country, said his countryside. We choose this cause or that, but still The Everlasting works its will. The slayer and the slain may be Knit in a secret harmony. What does the spirit urge us to? Some sacrifice that may undo The bonds that hold us to the clay, And limit life to this cold day? Some for a gentle dream will die: Some for an empire's majesty: Some for a loftier humankind, Some to be free as cloud or wind, Will leave their valley, climb their slope. Whate'er the deed, whate'er the hope, Through all the varied battle cries A Shepherd with a single voice Still draws us nigh the Gates of Gold That lead unto the heavenly fold. So it may be that Michael died For some far other countryside Than that gray island he had known. Yet on his dream of it was thrown Some light from that consuming Fire Which is the end of all desire. If men adore It as the power, Empires and cities, tower on tower, Are built in worship by the way, High Babylon or Nineveh. Seek It as love and there may be A Golden Age and Arcady. All shadows are they of one thing To which all life is journeying. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FROLIC by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL IMMORTALITY by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL RECONCILIATION by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL SACRIFICE by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL THE GIFT by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL A CALL by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL A FAREWELL by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL A HOLY HILL by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL A LAST COUNSEL by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL A LEADER by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL |
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