Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, MOUNTAIN PSALM, by RICHARD DEHMEL


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

MOUNTAIN PSALM, by                    
First Line: The storm has loosed his serpents fiercely coiling
Last Line: "lift, brain! Sick heart, be still! Up! And away!"


The storm has loosed his serpents fiercely coiling.
Grasses and reeds in long whorls hiss and sigh,
and landwards swell the lifted waters, boiling;
the willows, silver-pale, uprooted, cry.
Climb up! Climb up! There where the fir-trees mutter,
on naked heights alone I would stand fast,
and on my distant home see shadows cast,
and hear the thunder-words the dark clouds utter.

Grey pilgrims over me, where do you go?
Oh, without staff or goal, could I but follow,
and shake into the storm like mist or snow
this measureless mad longing, vain and hollow!
Oh, home! How silverly your rivers rear,
and skyward smile between blue forests gleaming,
while from the magic wood of childhood's dreaming
motherly eyes and lips are beckoning clear.

Storm, do you weep? Memories, fade and vanish!
In city smoke a tired heart's muscles strain.
The millions who for peace and pleasure famish
cry million-tongued; you worm, what is your pain!
No more from breast to breast, lonely and quiet,
longing flows slowly, like a brook grown still;
a people groans for light now, wild and shrill,
and yet in selfish sorrow you can riot?

Do you see smoke, a threatening fist, arise
from forge and factory, o'er the forests pouring?
toil scorns your pure, pale dream, whose selfish eyes
look inward, the stern sweaty strife ignoring.
You toyed with longing in a pretty game,
dullard, with pity for your own pain glowing;
pour forth the strength that toward you has been flowing,
and you will lose the burden of your blame!

Bloody, above the pointed towers beaming,
a crown of thorns flames round the city's brow,
and like a palm-leaf from the sun's tree gleaming,
a golden fan makes the scared storm-clouds cow.
O heart of the world-city, O ye voices
of hungry millions feeding upon woes,
as calmly as the Saviour's life-blood flows,
so from your wrath love flows, and love rejoices!

The chalice of your sweat holds sacrament:
I see the cross of pain alive with flowers.
Storm, do you laugh?—In reeds the mists ferment,
firs creak, my cloak is tossing in the showers:
"Forsake your dream! Compassion, lift your sway!
Let not your powers sink, consumed by longing!
From your desire let potent deeds come thronging!
Lift, brain! Sick heart, be still! Up! And away!"





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