On Waking

SLEEP, gray brother of death, Has touched me, And passed on. I arise, facing the east— Pearl-doored sanctuary From which the light, Hand-linked with dew and fire, Dances. Hail, essence, hail! Fill the windows of my soul With beauty: Pierce and renew my bones: Pour knowledge into my heart As wine. Cualann is bright before thee. Its rocks melt and swim: The secret they have kept From the ancient nights of darkness Flies like a bird. What mourns? Cualann’s secret flying. A lost voice In endless fields. What rejoices? My voice lifted praising thee. Praise! Praise! Praise! Praise out of the trumpets, whose brass Is the unyoked strength of bulls; Praise upon the harp, whose strings Are the light movement of birds; Praise of leaf, praise of blossom, Praise of the red-fibred clay; Praise of grass, Fire-woven veil of the temple; Praise of the shapes of clouds; Praise of the shadows of wells; Praise of worms, of fetal things, And of things in time’s thought Not yet begotten. To thee, queller of sleep, Looser of the snare of death.