Chapter I

I opened the eyes of my soul. And behold, A white river-lily: a lily awake, and aware,-- For she set her face upward,--aware how in scarlet and gold A long wrinkled cloud, left behind of the wandering air, Lay over with fold upon fold, With fold upon fold.

And the blushing sweet shame of the cloud made her also ashamed, The white river-lily, that suddenly knew she was fair; And over the far-away mountains that no man hath named, And that no foot hath trod, Flung down out of heavenly places, there fell, as it were, A rose-bloom, a token of love, that should make them endure, Withdrawn in snow silence forever, who keep themselves pure, And look up to God. Then I said, "In rosy air, Cradled on thy reaches fair, While the blushing early ray Whitens into perfect day, River-lily, sweetest known, Art thou set for me alone? Nay, but I will bear thee far, Where yon clustering steeples are, And the bells ring out o'erhead, And the stated prayers are said; And the busy farmers pace, Trading in the market-place; And the country lasses sit, By their butter, praising it; And the latest news is told, While the fruit and cream are sold; And the friendly gossips greet, Up and down the sunny street. For," I said, "I have not met, White one, any folk as yet Who would send no blessing up, Looking on a face like thine; For thou art as Joseph's cup, And by thee might they divine.

"Nay! but thou a spirit art; Men shall take thee in the mart For the ghost of their best thought, Raised at noon, and near them brought; Or the prayer they made last night, Set before them all in white."

And I put out my rash hand, For I thought to draw to land The white lily. Was it fit Such a blossom should expand, Fair enough for a world's wonder, And no mortal gather it? No. I strove, and it went under, And I drew, but it went down; And the waterweeds' long tresses, And the overlapping cresses, Sullied its admired crown. Then along the river strand, Trailing, wrecked, it came to land, Of its beauty half despoiled, And its snowy pureness soiled: O! I took it in my hand,-- You will never see it now, White and golden as it grew: No, I cannot show it you, Nor the cheerful town endow With the freshness of its brow.

If a royal painter, great With the colors dedicate To a dove's neck, a sea-bight, And the flickering over white Mountain summits far away,-- One content to give his mind To the enrichment of mankind, And the laying up of light In men's houses,--on that day, Could have passed in kingly mood, Would he ever have endued Canvas with the peerless thing, In the grace that it did bring, And the light that o'er it flowed, With the pureness that it showed, And the pureness that it meant? Could he skill to make it seen As he saw? For this, I ween, He were likewise impotent.