3. 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.