On the Feast of the Ascension
The archetypal weeping figured not
In primal framing of drench’d sky and sea,
Nor lonely Adam’s, help-meet unbegot,
Nor daily drinkfall on the appletree.
Heard not at nature’s howling mangerside,
Felt not at wrenching witness of bereaved,
Dripped not in garden, holy will complied,
Gushed not in piercings past gethsemene.
But soil’s son ascending glorified
And sensing, until then, unmuddied spheres,
Welled up wet gratitude which understands
Made-miracle of man from the inside:
And let fall the first truly human tears
In wonder at the beauty of his hands.
