Page:Poetry, a magazine of verse, Volume 7 (October 1915-March 1916).djvu/377

On Waking :What mourns Cualann's secret flying, A lost voice In endless fields.


 * What rejoices?

My voice lifted praising thee.


 * Praise! Praise! Praise!

Praise out of trumpets, whose brass Is thee urn unyoked strength of bulls; Praise upon harps, whose strings Are the light movements of birds; Praise of leaf, praise of blossom, Praise of the red—fibred clay; Praise of grass, Fire-woven veil of the temple; Praise of the shapes of clouds; Praise of the shadows of wells; Praise of worms, of fetal things, And of the things in time's thought Not yet begotten. To thee, queller of sleep, Looser of the snare of death.