Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, CORPUS CHRISTI: HIBERNAL, by MARGERY SWETT MANSFIELD


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CORPUS CHRISTI: HIBERNAL, by                    
First Line: Legend in a country-side
Last Line: To see the world a flowering heart.
Subject(s): Ignorance; Jesus Christ; Dullness; Stupdity


At Eastertide, there had been in a certain province a tale that the Christ
had risen again (or descended) and was abroad on the earth. Many caught
glimpses of him during the spring, and a few tried to follow. They searched as
summer wore on -- and the continuing search through fall and winter is here
recorded.

I

Legend in a country-side
Spreads like a rambling rose,
And many mouths are telling now
Where the Risen goes;
How Martin in the meadows,
When the night was falling,
Said, "Someone is here,"
Thought to bend the knee,
And Trenton in the orchard
Heard a new voice calling,
Saw a sandalled husbandman
Prune a flowering tree.

II

A worshipper comes barefoot from the marshes, singing:

In these my days of seeking I have found
How lavender the bush burns near the ground,
And flaming upward, lifts red, reaching hands,
To what it neither sees nor understands.

And though the One is hidden from my eye,
As I come near the plaintive marsh birds cry
And flash me orange as they seek the orange sky,
While glimmering and holy, the hills and meadows lie.

Oh, little I have learned except the tone
And shape of bark and leaf and soil and stone,
Oh, little I have learned except that they
And man, are all the rosary I can say.

But lovely woods and fields, as I came through,
I heard, "This is my body which I break for you;
From it I arise, and to it I return,
When I am gone, then let your altars burn.

Build a church, if you must, to keep alive your hope
Until you see me standing on the nearest flowering slope
Tell me to each other, until without surprise,
You see me smiling faintly in your brother's eyes."

III

The world turns on the shoulders of the night,
And dawn slips farther and still farther west,
Now it is East again -- Emmanuel walks
Once more within the lands that first he blessed.

Unnamed but not unknown he goes,
And sages rise to find new wisdom in the rose,
While lovers only tell how closely to her breast
The young year holds them. For the rest --
Enough if in one pair of eyes
Burning as brightly as his own,
With the same compassion, never dies
The vision of his raiment blown
Over all mankind -- for He
Walks with the joy of each new sun,
Swings with the wind and is free,
He makes his home with everyone,
Binds up a broken tree.

IV

Now the woods are plangent with the cry
Of crimson, scarlet and a russet gold,
The hedges blaze with autumn, and the fields are dry
With stubble.
Who is this goes by
Listening to an old wife's tale of trouble,
Who has grown so patient and so old?

She said, "He wore a russet cloak, was singing when he found me,
He took the russet cloak, and wrapped it snug around me;
He wore a russet cloak, and he bore a heavy pack,
-- It carried all the troubles that he took off from my back.
I think he said no word to me, but spoke a kindly smile,
And his arm was around me, and he walked with me a mile."

"Did he have a halo?" the worshipper said.
"I think there was a wreath of thorns about his head."

"Why did you let him go, then bear this tale to me?"
"Looking up, I only saw a russet old thorn-tree."

V

Blaze above the meadows, proud red maples,
Shift your crimson shadows, scarlet sumach,
Oaks unfurl your banners high,
He goes by.

Branches bend with rapture, wave and toss
Your million golden circlets to the sky,
There never was a glory and a loss
Not contained in this;
He goes by beneath the cross.

VI

Now candles by the altar burn
Within the gloom of winter dusk,
And all the land lies white outside
As one who has been crucified.
The people huddle in their seats
Or sway in plaintive litany;
The fine young rector rises up,
The pulpit steps mounts solemnly.
A practical young preacher, he,
Who is convinced that Jesus was
A glorious, wild, young visionary,
Pursuing courses to undo
Any poor priest or missionary.
"A wild young dreamer," so thinks he
"Who found a sweetness that will carry
Down the ages till it grows
To ultimate reality,
That is, if it is helped, of course,
By my discerning practicality."
This is his task to ponder on
That Dream of Dreams, Wonder of Wonders,
Solemn before the sacred ark,
Then rise and help undo its blunders.
So now he calls his thoughts together,
So now he sounds his evening's text,
So now he starts -- but soon he stops,
And starts again, a little vexed.
-- Where has he seen that man before
Who came in late by the open door?
The eyes beneath the wide brimmed hat
Burn so very brightly -- that --
But why does he keep on his hat?
Then, curiously, he felt, instead,
"It hides a halo round his head."

Oh, what wild wandering thoughts are these
For one of tradition's staunch trustees?
He goes on firmly as before
But his eyes will wander toward that door,
Where faint, familiar laughter slips
Strangely over bearded lips.

VII

There is no more that I can say --
A jester well might tell the plot,
How those who hunted never found,
And those who found forgot.
A seraph might weep out the tale
Or sound its high sublimity,
The mystic holds it in his hand
And in it gazes silently,
The skeptic shakes his honest head
And on his search goes steadfastly.

There is no more that I can say,
My lips are hushed with falling snow,
-- That will be hushed with clay too soon --
But when the winter's body breaks
And in the wind azaleas blow,
When footsteps lead to all the lakes
And upward floats the petal moon;
A thousand vibrant throats will sing
That Something walks behind the spring,
And some new worshipper will start
To see the world a flowering heart.





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