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I.
I KNOW a Mount, the gracious Sun perceivesFirst, when he visits, last, too, when he leaves The world; and, vainly favoured, it repays The day-long glory of his steadfast gaze By no change of its large calm front of snow. And underneath the Mount, a Flower I know, He cannot have perceived, that changes ever At his approach; and, in the lost endeavour To live his life, has parted, one by one, With all a flower’s true graces, for the grace Of being but a foolish mimic sun, With ray-like florets round a disk-like face. Men nobly call by many a name the Mount As over many a land of theirs its large Calm front of snow like a triumphal targe Is reared, and still with old names, fresh names vie, Each to its proper praise and own account: Men call the Flower, the Sunflower, sportively.
II.
Oh, Angel of the East, one, one gold lookAcross the waters to this twilight nook, —The far sad waters, Angel, to this nook!
III.
Dear Pilgrim, are thou for the East indeed?Go! Saying ever as thou dost proceed, That I, French Rudel, choose for my device A sunflower outspread like a sacrifice Before its idol. See! These inexpert And hurried fingers could not fail to hurt The woven picture: ’tis a woman’s skill Indeed; but nothing baffled me, so ill Or well, the work is finished. Say, men feed On songs I sing, and therefore bask the bees On my flower’s breast as on a platform broad: But, as the flower’s concern is not for these But solely for the sun, so men applaud In vain this Rudel, he not looking here But to the East—that East! Go, say this, Pilgrim dear! |