Ella Higginson

That I might chisel a statue, line on line, Out of a marble’s chaste severities! Angular, harsh; no softened curves to please; Set tears within the eyes to make them shine, And furrows on the brow, deep, stern, yet fine; Gaunt, awkward, tall; no courtier of ease; The trousers bulging at the bony knees; Long nose, large mouth . . . But ah, the light divine Of Truth, – the light that set a people free!— Burning upon it in a steady flame, As sunset fires a white peak on the sky . . . Ah, God! To leave it nameless and yet see Men looking weep and bow themselves and cry— ‘Enough, enough! We know thy statue’s name!’

An inland sea – blue as a sapphire – set Within a sparkling, emerald mountain chain Where day and night fir-needles sift like rain Thro’ the voluptuous air. The soft winds fret The waves, and beat them wantonly to foam. The golden distances across the sea Are shot with rose and purple. Languorously The silver seabirds in wide circles roam. The sun drops slowly down the flaming West And flings its rays across to set aglow The islands rocking on the cool waves’ crest And the great glistening domes of snow on snow. And thro’ the mist the Olympics flash and float Like opals linked around a beating throat.

I know a place where the sun is like gold, And the cherry blooms burst with snow, And down underneath is the loveliest nook, Where the four-leaf clovers grow. One leaf is for hope, and one is for faith, And one is for love, you know, And God put another in for luck— If you search, you will find where they grow. But you must have hope, and you must have faith, You must love and be strong – and so— If you work, if you wait, you will find the place Where the four-leaf clovers grow.

Close to the gates of Paradise I flee; The night is hot and serpents leave their beds, And slide along the dark, crooking their heads,— My God, my God, open the gates to me! My eyes are burning so I cannot see; My feet are bleeding and I suffer pain; Let me come in on the cool grass again— My God, my God, open the gates to me! I ate the fruit of the forbidden tree, And was cast out into the barren drouth; And since – the awful taste within my mouth! My God, my God, open the gates to me! Am I shut out for all eternity? I do repent me of my one black sin, With prayers and tears of blood . . . Let me come in! My God, my God, open the gates to me! Let me come in where birds and flowers be; Let me once more lie naked in the grass That trembles when the long wind-ripples pass! Lord God, Lord God, open the gates to me!

The soft-toned clock upon the stair chimed three— Too sweet for sleep, too early yet to rise. In restful peace I lay with half-closed eyes, Watching the tender hours go dreamily; The tide was flowing in; I heard the sea Shivering along the sands; while yet the skies Were dim, uncertain, as the light that lies Beneath the fretwork of some wild-rose tree Within the thicket gray. The chanticleer Sent drowsy calls across the slumbrous air; In solemn silence sweet it was to hear My own heart beat . . . Then broad and deep and fair— Trembling in its new birth from heaven’s womb— One crimson shaft of dawn sank thro’ my room.