Margaret Fuller

There are who separate the eternal light In forms of man and woman, day and night; They cannot bear that God be essence quite. Existence is as deep a verity: Without the dual, where is unity? And the ‘I am’ cannot forbear to be; But from its primal nature forced to frame Mysteries, destinies of various name, Is forced to give what it has taught to claim. Thus love must answer to its own unrest; The bad commands us to expect the best, And hope of its own prospects is the test. And dost thou seek to find the one in two? Only upon the old can build the new; The symbol which you seek is found in you. The heart and mind, the wisdom and the will, The man and woman, must be severed still, And Christ must reconcile the good and ill. There are to whom each symbol is a mask; The life of love is a mysterious task; They want no answer, for they would not ask. A single thought transfuses every form; The sunny day is changed into the storm, For light is dark, hard soft, and cold is warm. One presence fills and floods the whole serene; Nothing can be, nothing has ever been, Except the one truth that creates the scene. Does the heart beat, — that is a seeming only; You cannot be alone, though you are lonely; The All is neutralized in the One only. You ask a faith, — they are content with faith; You ask to have, — but they reply, ‘IT hath.’ There is no end, and there need be no path. The day wears heavily, — why, then, ignore it; Peace is the soul’s desire, — such thoughts restore it; The truth thou art, — it needs not to implore it. The Presence all thy fancies supersedes, All that is done which thou wouldst seek in deeds, The wealth obliterates all seeming needs. Both these are true, and if they are at strife, The mystery bears the one name of Life, That, slowly spelled, will yet compose the strife. The men of old say, ‘Live twelve thousand years, And see the need of all that here appears, And Moxen* shall absorb thy smiles and tears.’ These later men say, ‘Live this little day. Believe that human nature is the way, And know both Son and Father while you pray; And one in two, in three, and none alone, Letting you know even as you are known, Shall make the you and me eternal parts of one.’ To me, our destinies seem flower and fruit Born of an ever-generating root; The other statement I cannot dispute. But say that Love and Life eternal seem, And if eternal ties be but a dream, What is the meaning of that self-same seem? Your nature craves Eternity for Truth; Eternity of Love is prayer of youth; How, without love, would have gone forth your truth? I do not think we are deceived to grow, But that the crudest fancy, slightest show, Covers some separate truth that we may know. In the one Truth, each separate fact is true; Eternally in one I many view, And destinies through destiny pursue. This is my tendency; but can I say That this my thought leads the true, only way? I only know it constant leads, and I obey. I only know one prayer — ‘Give me the truth, Give me that colored whiteness, ancient youth, Complex and simple, seen in joy and truth. Let me not by vain wishes bar my claim, Nor soothe my hunger by an empty name, Nor crucify the Son of man by hasty blame. But in the earth and fire, water and air, Live earnestly by turns without despair, Nor seek a home till home be every where!’

Sunday, 12 May 1833 The clouds are marshalling across the sky, Leaving their deepest tints upon yon range Of soul-alluring hills. The breeze comes softly, Laden with tribute that a hundred orchards Now in their fullest blossom send, in thanks For this refreshing shower. The birds pour forth In heightened melody the notes of praise They had suspended while God’s voice was speaking, And his eye flashing down upon his world. I sigh, half-charmed, half-pained. My sense is living, And, taking in this freshened beauty, tells Its pleasure to the mind. The mind replies, And strives to wake the heart in turn, repeating Poetic sentiments from many a record Which other souls have left, when stirred and satisfied By scenes as fair, as fragrant. But the heart Sends back a hollow echo to the call Of outward things, — and its once bright companion, Who erst would have been answered by a stream Of life-fraught treasures, thankful to be summoned, — Can now rouse nothing better than this echo; Unmeaning voice, which mocks their softened accents. Content thee, beautiful world! and hush, still busy mind! My heart hath sealed its fountains. To the things Of Time they shall be oped no more. Too long, Too often were they poured forth: part have sunk Into the desert; part profaned and swollen By bitter waters, mixed by those who feigned They asked them for refreshment, which, turned back, Have broken and o’erflowed their former urns. So when ye talk of pleasure, lonely world, And busy mind, ye ne’er again shall move me To answer ye, though still your calls have power To jar me through, and cause dull aching here. No so the voice which hailed me from the depths Of yon dark-bosomed cloud, now vanishing Before the sun ye greet. It touched my centre, The voice of the Eternal, calling me To feel his other worlds; to feel that if I could deserve a home, I still might find it In other spheres, — and bade me not despair, Though ‘want of harmony’ and ‘aching void’ Are terms invented by the men of this, Which I may not forget. In former times I loved to see the lightnings flash athwart The stooping heavens; I loved to hear the thunder Call to the seas and mountains; for I thought ‘Tis thus man’s flashing fancy doth enkidle The firmament of mind; ‘tis thus his eloquence Calls unto the soul’s depths and heights; and still I defied the creature, nor remembered The Creator in his works. Ah now how different! The proud delight of that keen sympathy Is gone; no longer riding on the wave, But whelmed beneath it: my own plans and works, Or, as the Scriptures phrase it, my ’inventions’ No longer interpose ‘twist me and Heaven. Today, for the first time, I felt the Deity, And uttered prayer on hearing thunder. This Must be thy will, — for finer, higher spirits Have gone through this same process, — yet I think There was religion in that strong delight, Those sounds, those thoughts of power imparted. True, I did not say, ‘He is the Lord thy God,’ But I had feeling of his essence. But ‘’Twas pride by which the angels fell.’ So be it! But O, might I but see a little onward! Father, I cannot be a spirit of power; May I be active as a spirit of love, Since thou hast ta’en me from that path which Nature Seemed to appoint, O, deign to ope another, Where I may walk with thought and hope assured; ‘Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief!’ Had I but faith like that which fired Novalis, I too could bear that the heart ‘fall in ashes,’ While the freed spirit rises from beneath them, With heavenward-look, and Phoenix-plumes upsoaring!

We deemed the secret lost, the spirit gone, Which spake in Greek simplicity of thought, And in the forms of gods and heroes wrought Eternal beauty from the sculptured stone,— A higher charm than modern culture won With all the wealth of metaphysic lore, Gifted to analyze, dissect, explore. A many-colored light flows from one sun; Art, ’neath its beams, a motley thread has spun; The prism modifies the perfect day; But thou hast known such mediums to shun, And cast once more on life a pure, white ray. Absorbed in the creations of thy mind, Forgetting daily self, my truest self I find.