At the Making of Man

First all the host of RaphaelIn liveries of gold,Lifted the chorus on whose rhythmThe spinning spheres are rolled,--The Seraphs of the morning calmWhose hearts are never cold.

He shall be born a spirit,Part of the soul that yearns,The core of vital gladnessThat suffers and discerns,The stir that breaks the budding sheathWhen the green spring returns,--

The gist of power and patienceHid in the plasmic clay,The calm behind the senses,The passionate essayTo make his wise and lovely dreamImmortal on a day.

The soft, Aprilian ardorsThat warm the waiting loamShall whisper in his pulsesTo bid him overcome,And he shall learn the wonder-cryBeneath the azure dome.

And though all-dying natureShould teach him to deplore,The ruddy fires of autumnShall lure him but the moreTo pass from joy to stronger joy,As through an open door.

He shall have hope and honor,Proud trust and courage stark,To hold him to his purposeThrough the unlighted dark,And love that sees the moon's full orbIn the first silver arc.

And he shall live by kindnessAnd the heart's certitude,Which moves without misgivingIn ways not understood,Sure only of the vast event,--The large and simple good.

Then Gabriel's host in silver gearAnd vesture twilight blue,The spirits of immortal mind,The warders of the true,Took up the theme that gives the worldSignificance anew.

He shall be born to reason,And have the primal needTo understand and followWherever truth may lead,--To grow in wisdom like a treeUnfolding from a seed.

A watcher by the sheepfolds,With wonder in his eyes,He shall behold the seasons,And mark the planets rise,Till all the marching firmamentShall rouse his vast surmise.

Beyond the sweep of vision,Or utmost reach of sound,This cunning fire-maker,This tiller of the ground,Shall learn the secrets of the sunsAnd fathom the profound.

For he must prove all beingSane, beauteous, benign,And at the heart of natureDiscover the divine,--Himself the type and symbolOf the eternal trine.

He shall perceive the kindlingOf knowledge, far and dim,As of the fire that brightensBelow the dark sea-rim,When ray by ray the splendid sunFloats to the world's wide brim.

And out of primal instinct,The lore of lair and den,He shall emerge to questionHow, wherefore, whence, and when,Till the last frontier of the truthShall lie within his ken.

Then Michael's scarlet-suited hostTook up the word and sang;As though a trumpet had been loosedIn heaven, the arches rang;For these were they who feel the thrillOf beauty like a pang.

He shall be framed and balancedFor loveliness and power,Lithe as the supple creatures,And colored as a flower,Sustained by the all-feeding earth,Nurtured by wind and shower,

To stand within the vortexWhere surging forces play,A poised and pliant figureImmutable as they,Till time and space and energySurrenders to his sway.

He shall be free to journeyOver the teeming earth,An insatiable seeker,A wanderer from his birth,Clothed in the fragile veil of sense,With fortitude for girth.

His hands shall have dominionOf all created things,To fashion in the likenessOf his imaginings,To make his will and thought surviveUnto a thousand springs.

The world shall be his province,The princedom of his skill;The tides shall wear his harness,The winds obey his will;Till neither flood, nor fire, nor frost,Shall work to do him ill.

A creature fit to carryThe pure creative fire,Whatever truth inform him,Whatever good inspire,He shall make lovely in all thingsTo the end of his desire.

In the pure solitude of duskOne star is set to shineAbove the sundown's dying rose,A lamp before a shrine.It is the star of Michael litIn the minster of the sun,That every toiling hand may giveThanks for the day's work done.

For when the almighty word went forthTo bid creation be,--The glimmering star-tracks on the blue,The tide-belts on the sea,--Perfect as planned, from Michael's handThe lasting hills arose,Their bases on the poppied plain,Their peaks in bannered snows.

Cedar and thorn and oak were born;Green fiddleheads uncurledIn the spring woods; gold adder-tonguesCame forth to glad the world;--The magic of the punctual seeds,Each with its pregnant powers,As the lord Michael fashioned themTo keep their days and hours.

Frail fins to ride the monstrous tide,Soft wings to poise and gleam,He formed the pageant tribe by tribeAs vivid as a dream.And still must his beneficenceRenew, create, sustain,Sorcery of the wind and sun,Alchemy of the rain.

Teeming with God, the kindly sodYearns through the summer daysWith the mute eloquence of flowers,Its only means of praise.At dusk and dawn the tranquil hillsThrob to the song of birds,And all the dim blue silence thrillsTo transport not of words.

For earth must breed to spirit's need,Clay to the finer clay,That soul through sense find recompenseAnd rapture on her way.And man, from dust and dreaming wrought,To all things must impartThe trend and likeness of his thought,The passion of his heart.

The love and lore he shall acquireTo word and deed must dare;Resemblances of God his sireHis voice and mien must bear.His children's children shall portrayThe skill which he bestowsOn living; and what life must meanHis craftsman's instinct knows.

Line upon line and tone by tone,The visioned form he givesTo sound and color, wood and stone,Takes loveliness and lives.He sees his project's soaring hopeGrow substance, and expandTo measure a diviner scopeBeneath his patient hand.

To pencil, brush, and burnisherHis wizardry he lends,And to the care of lathe and loomHis secret he commends.In hues and forms and cadencesNew beauty he instills,A brother by the right of craftTo Michael of the hills.