O Queen—so here, after the long long road,
Before we turn again and take that selfsame way,
The one refuge held open in the hollow of your hand,
And the secret garden where the soul opens—wholly, all.
Here is the heavy pillar and the rising vault;
And forgetting for yesterday, and forgetting for tomorrow;
And the uselessness of every human reckoning;
And more than sin itself—the wisdom put to rout.
Here is the place in the world where everything turns easy:
The regret, the leaving, even the event itself,
And the temporary farewell and the turning aside,
The one corner of earth where everything grows docile,
Even this old heart that played the rebel;
And this old head and all its reasonings;
And these two arms stiffened in barracks-lines;
And that young child who made herself too fair.
Here is the place in the world where all is owned, acknowledged—
And that old head, and the wellspring of tears;
And these two arms stiffened in the soldier’s trade;
The one corner of earth where everything is held, contained.
Here is the place in the world where all has come back home
After so many departures, after so many arrivals.
Here is the place in the world where all is poor and naked
After so many chances, after so many chores.
Here is the place in the world, the single retreat,
The only homecoming, the gathering-in of heart;
The leaf and the fruit, and the leafing-off, the falling,
And branches cut for this one, only festival.
Here is the place in the world where everything comes in and falls silent—
And silence, and shadow, and fleshly absence,
And the beginning of an everlasting presence,
The one small cell where the soul is all it ever was.
Here is the place in the world where temptation
Turns back upon itself and flips itself inside out.
For what tempts here is submission—
And blindness in the immense universe.
And laying-down is what tempts here;
And what comes of itself is abdication;
And what comes to meet us, what presents itself,
Is nothing here but grandeur—and pure presentation.
Revolt is what becomes impossible here;
And what presents itself is resignation.
And erasing-self becomes invincible.
And all is only greeting—only salutation.
What everywhere else is an accession
Is here a total, muffled wearing-down.
What everywhere else is a piling-up
Is here nothing but lowness, nothing but sinking.
What everywhere else is oppression
Is here the effect of a noble crushing.
What everywhere else is eager haste
Is here inheritance—succession.
What everywhere else is harsh war
Is here the peace of a long abandonment.
What everywhere else is a collapse
Is here the very law, the common norm.
What everywhere else is a bitter battle
And on the stretched neck the butcher’s knife,
What everywhere else is grafting and pruning,
Is here only the blossom and the peach’s fruit.
What everywhere else is the rough climb
Is here descent, and coming-to-the-end.
What everywhere else is the sea in uproar
Is here calm weather—and a settled dwelling.
What everywhere else is a hard law
Is here a lovely fold beneath your commands.
And in the freedom of our mending, our amends,
A tenderness of faithfulness more tender than faith.
What everywhere else is obsession
Is here, beneath your laws, a place restored.
What everywhere else is a soul sold off
Is here only prayer—only intercession.
What everywhere else is weariness
Is here only keys laid on a humble tray.
What everywhere else is the turn of fortune
Is here only a vineyard clinging to the slope.
What everywhere else is the long habit—
Seated by the fire, fists under the chin—
What everywhere else is solitude
Is here only a living, firm new shoot.
What everywhere else is decrepitude—
Seated by the fire, fists on the knees—
Is here only tenderness and carefulness,
And two maternal arms that turn toward us.
We have washed ourselves of such bitterness,
Star of the Sea, Star over salt reefs;
We have washed ourselves of such a base scum,
Star of the boat, Star of supple nets.
We have rinsed our wretched heads clean
Of such a heap of filth and reasoning.
Here we are now, O Queen of prophets,
Clearer than the well-water of the Old Testament.
We have piloted such modest arks,
Sail of the only ship that will not perish;
We have consulted such poor compasses,
Ark of the only salvation, Queen of patriarchs.
We have consumed such far-off journeys;
We have no taste left for strange countries.
Queen of confessors, of virgins and of angels,
Here we are—returned to our first villages.
So much has been said to us, O Queen of apostles;
We have no taste left for grand speeches.
We have no altars now but those that are yours;
We know nothing anymore but one simple prayer.
We have ridden out such vast shipwrecks;
We have no taste left for transshipment.
Here we have come back, at the waning of our days,
Star of the only North within your ship.
What everywhere else is scattering
Is here the effect of a fair gathering.
What everywhere else is dismembering
Is here only escort—only procession.
What everywhere else demands an examination
Is here only the effect of a poor youthfulness.
What everywhere else demands a tomorrow
Is here only the effect of sudden weakness.
What everywhere else demands parchment
Is here only the effect of a poor tenderness.
What everywhere else demands a deft hand
Is here only the effect of humble clumsiness.
What everywhere else is a breakdown
Is here only rightness—declension, true inflection.
What everywhere else is a flimsy shack
Is here an ample, thick, enduring house.
What everywhere else is war and peace
Is here only defeat—only surrender.
What everywhere else is sedition
Is here a fair people, and thick with ears of grain.
What everywhere else is an immense army
With its trains of food and all its clogging loads,
And its baggage-trains and its delays,
Is here only decency and good renown.
What everywhere else is a collapse
Is here a slow, curved inclination.
What everywhere else is comparison
Is here without equal—and without repetition.
What everywhere else is a burdening-down
Is here only the effect of poor obedience.
What everywhere else is a great parliament
Is here only the effect of the one audience.
What everywhere else is a framing-in
Is here a candid, calm resting-place for the holy.
What everywhere else is adjournment
Is here forgetting morning and evening.
Mornings have gone off toward times long past,
And evenings will go off toward the eternal evening,
And days will enter into one solemn day,
And sons will become men—resolved.
Ages will enter into an absolute age;
Sons will return to the father’s threshold
And will seize by force even fraternal love,
And the ancient inheritance and the appointed good.
Here is the place in the world where all becomes child,
And above all that old man with his grey beard,
And his hair mixed with the breath of the breeze,
And his modest gaze—once triumphant.
Here is the place in the world where all becomes novice,
And that old head and its long fussing talks,
And these two arms stiffened in governments—
The one corner of earth where all becomes complicit,
Even that great fool who played the clever man
(Your servant—O first servant),
Who went in circles in a learned orbit,
And carried water into the mill-race of the mill.
What everywhere else is a tearing-out
Is here only the flower of the young season.
What everywhere else is a cutting-off
Is here only sun low on the horizon.
What everywhere else is hard plowing
Is here harvest—and letting-go.
What everywhere else is the decline of an age
Is here a candid, dear growing-old.
What everywhere else is resistance
Is here only following-on, accompaniment;
What everywhere else is prostration
Is here a sweet, long obedience.
What everywhere else is a rule of constraint
Is here release—abandonment;
What everywhere else is a hard stern duty
Is here weakness—and uprising.
What everywhere else is a rule of conduct
Is here happiness—and strengthening.
What everywhere else is earned saving
Is here honor—and a grave oath.
What everywhere else is soreness, stiff aches,
Is here only the flower of the young prayer;
What everywhere else is heavy armor
Is here only wool—and the white fleece.
What everywhere else would be a feat of strength
Is here simplicity—and resting-ease.
What everywhere else is rough bark
Is here only sap—and the vine-shoot’s tears.
What everywhere else is a long wearing-away
Is here reinforcement—and renewed growth.
What everywhere else is upheaval
Is here the day of good adventure.
What everywhere else holds itself in reserve
Is here abundance—and overflow.
What everywhere else is won and kept
Is here spending—and relinquishment.
What everywhere else stands on the defensive
Is here rejoicing—and disarming.
And forgetting insult and forgetting offense
Is here only idleness—and banishment.
What everywhere else is an entanglement, a tie,
Is here a faithful, noble attachment.
What everywhere else is an encirclement
Is here a passer-by inside your house.
What everywhere else is obedience as yoke
Is here a sheaf at harvest-time.
What everywhere else is done by surveillance
Is here fine hay in haymaking season.
What everywhere else is forcing and coercion
Is here the plant right in the garden-bed.
What everywhere else is pledge-taking, hostage-taking,
Is here the threshold at the step’s own edge.
What everywhere else is retaliation
Is here only easing—disarmament.
What everywhere else is contraction
Is here a mute, calm commitment.
What everywhere else is a perishable good
Is here a tranquil, brief releasing.
What everywhere else is puffed-up pride
Is here a rose—and footsteps on the sand.
What everywhere else is straining effort
Is here the flower of young reason.
What everywhere else is straightening-up
Is here the slope—and the fold of the grass.
What everywhere else is flaying and rawing
Is here a modest, beautiful unclothing.
What everywhere else is digging-out and gouging
Is here a durable, sure stripping-bare.
What everywhere else is stiffening
Is here a supple, candid fountain.
What everywhere else is illustrious pain
Is here a deep and pure outbursting spring.
What everywhere else quarrels and seizes
Is here a fair river on the borders of its source.
O Queen—here every soul gives in, gives over,
Like a young warrior falling back in his run.
What everywhere else is the road climbed up—
O Queen who reign within your illustrious court,
Morning Star, Queen of the last day—
What everywhere else is the table set,
What everywhere else is the road followed
Is here a peaceful, strong detachment—
And in a quiet temple, far from flat torment,
The waiting for a death more living than life.
II. Prayer of Petition
We do not ask that grain beneath the millstone
Be ever set back again into the heart of the ear;
We do not ask that the wandering soul, alone,
Be ever laid to rest in a garden bright with flowers.
We do not ask that the crushed-out cluster of grapes
Be ever set back again on the trellis’ gable-beam,
And that the heavy hornet and the young, light bee
Come back there ever again to gorge on dew.
We do not ask that the vermilion dew
Be ever rehung on the hoops of the rosebush,
And that the little bread-loaf and the heavy basket
Turn back toward the river and become osier—willow—again.
We do not ask that this written page
Be ever erased from the book of memory,
Nor that heavy suspicion, nor that young tale,
Come back to make us remember this sentence of pain.
We do not ask that the bent stem
Be ever straightened again in the book of nature,
Nor that the heavy bud, nor the young vein of leaf,
Ever pierce the bark again and spread itself anew.
We do not ask that the crushed branchlet
Ever green again in the book of grace,
Nor that the heavy shoot, nor the young race,
Ever spring again from the lightning-struck tree.
We do not ask that the stripped branch
Ever turn again toward a young springtime,
Nor that the heavy sap, nor the young season,
Save even one treetop in the drowned forest.
We do not ask that the fold in the tablecloth
Be smoothed away before the Master comes again,
Nor that your handmaid and some wretched creature
Be ever freed from this heavy cloak, this crushing weight.
We do not ask that this august table
Be ever set again—unless it be for God;
And yet we do not hope the great Constable,
The high commander, will warm his hands twice over
At so thin a fire.
We do not ask that a soul gone astray
Be ever set back upon the road of happiness.
O Queen, it is enough for us to have kept our honor—
And we do not want a pitying help,
A bought compassion, ever to put us back
On the road of ease and pleasure;
And we do not want a bribed-up love
Ever to set us back upon the road of allegiance—
O only government of a soul at war,
Regent of the sea, of the illustrious harbor,
We ask for nothing, in all these mending-acts, these amends,
Save this: that under your commands you keep for us
A faithfulness stronger than death.
III. Prayer of Trust
We do not ask that this fair tablecloth
Be ever folded back again into the shelves of the cupboard;
We do not ask that any crease of memory
Be ever smoothed away from beneath this heavy cloak.
Mistress of the way and of joining-up again,
O mirror of justice and of a soul’s true balance,
You alone know, O great Our Lady,
What it is to pause—and to gather oneself inward.
Mistress of descent and of new grafting of blood,
O temple of wisdom and of learned law,
You alone know, O stern prudence,
What it is to judge—and to weigh, to keep the scales.
When we had to sit down at the crossroads’ cross
And choose regret apart from remorse,
When we had to sit down at the corner of double fates
And fix our gaze on the keystone of the two vaults,
You alone know, mistress of the secret,
That one of the two roads went downwards.
You know the one our steps chose—
As one chooses cedar, and the wood for a casket.
And not out of virtue—for we have little enough,
And not out of duty—for we do not love it,
But as a carpenter arms himself with his compass—
Out of need to set ourselves at the center of misery,
To place ourselves cleanly on the axis of distress,
And by that dull need to be more wretched still,
To go where it is hardest, to suffer more deeply,
And to take evil in its full exactness.
By that old knack of the hand, by that same deftness
That will no longer serve us for chasing happiness—
Grant us, O Regent, at least to hold to honor,
And keep for it alone our poor tenderness.
IV. Prayer of Bequest
We have governed such vast kingdoms,
O Regent of kings and governments;
We have lain down so often in straw and thatch,
Regent of great beggars and uprisings.
We have no taste left for the great stewards,
Regent of power and of overthrows;
We have no taste left for upheavals,
Regent of pediments, palaces, and domes.
We have fought such fervent wars
Before the Lord and the God of Hosts;
We have ranged across such shifting lands,
We have won ourselves such lofty renown.
We have no taste left for the soldier’s trade,
Queen of great peaces and disarmings;
We have no taste left for the trade of tears,
Queen of the Seven Sorrows and the Seven Sacraments.
We have governed such vast provinces,
Regent of prefects and procurators;
We have lingered under so many august princes,
Queen of painted panels and of the two donors.
We have no taste left for departments,
Nor for the prefecture nor for the capital;
We have no taste left for embarkations—
We breathe no more toward the native land.
We have run up such high fortunes,
O key to the only honor that will not perish;
We have stripped ourselves of such low rancors,
Queen of witness and of the double witness.
We have no taste left for boasting,
Mistress of wisdom and of silence and of shadow;
We have no taste left for plate and silver,
O key to the only treasure, to a happiness without number.
We have seen so much, Lady of poverty;
We have no taste left for new gazes.
We have done so much, Temple of purity;
We have no taste left for new chances.
We have sinned so much, refuge of the sinner;
We have no taste left for postponements.
We have sought so much, miracle of candor;
We have no taste left for lessons.
We have learned so much in schoolhouses;
We know nothing now but your commands.
We have failed so much by deed and by word;
We know nothing now but our amends.
We are those soldiers who grumbled through the world,
Yet always marched and never once bent.
We are that Church, that bound bundle, that sheaf tied fast;
We are that inward, deep-set race.
We ask no more for those perishable goods;
We ask no more for your graces of happiness.
We ask no more but your graces of honor;
We will build our houses no longer on these sands.
We know nothing now of what was read to us;
We know nothing now of what was said to us.
We recognize only one eternal edict;
We know nothing now but your absolute order.
We have taken too much; we are resolved.
We want nothing now except by obedience,
And to stay under the blows of an august power—
Mirror of times to come and times long gone.
Yet if it is permitted that he who has nothing
May one day dispose, may bequeath something;
If it is not forbidden, mysterious rose,
That he who has not should one day carry over his good;
If the beggar may draw up a testament
And bequeath shelter and straw and thatch;
If the king may bequeath the kingdom,
And if the great Dauphin (the crown prince) swears anew;
If it is allowed, too, that he who owes all
May have an account opened and a credit entered;
If the transfer turns, and is not forbidden—
We ask for nothing: we will go on to the end.
If then it is admitted that a humble debtor
May raise his voice for what is not his due;
If he may touch a prize though he has sold nothing,
And make the balance tip by a creditor’s surplus—
We who have known only your graces of war,
And your graces of mourning, and your graces of pain
(And your graces of joy, and that heavy plain),
And the trudging onward of the graces of misery;
And the procession of the graces of distress;
And the plowed fields and the beaten paths;
And torn hearts and aching loins—
We ask for nothing, vigilant mistress.
We who have known only your adversity
(May it be blessed, O Temple of wisdom),
O please—carry over, marvel of largesse,
Your graces of happiness and prosperity.
Please lay them down upon four young heads—
Your graces of gentleness and of consent;
And braid for these foreheads, Queen of pure wheat,
A few ears of grain, gathered from the harvest of feast-days.
V. Prayer of Deference
So many friends turned aside from this solitary heart
Have not wearied love, have not wearied fidelity;
So much slipping-away, so much inconstancy
Has not discouraged this unwilling heart.
So many blows of fortune, so many blows of misery
Have not sounded out the day of frailty;
So much harsh endurance and brutality
Has not made secular this sacramental heart.
So much false credence, so much false mystery
Has not wearied faith, nor docile trust;
So many renunciations have not weakened
The blood of the red heart, the blood of the artery.
Yet if today one must draw up an inventory—
The one that death alone must close and seal;
If one must rediscover what had to be hidden;
And if one must become one’s own secretary;
If one must appoint oneself one’s own notary,
And one’s own clerk of court, and one’s own double witness,
And set the flourish, the initials, after the final period,
And strike upon the seal the signing cipher;
If one must close the clause and bind the contract,
And cut the article with the paragraph,
And hollow into stone and engrave the epitaph,
If one must appoint oneself rector and magistrate;
If one must set out this new register,
With no exception and no delay,
And with no copying-over and no transshipment,
And with no trespass and no escape-hatch;
If upon these ruins one must raise a new code,
And upon these punishments raise up a new king,
And plant the apparatus of a final law,
With no event, with no episode—
No one shall pass again the threshold of this desert
Who is not your liegeman and faithful to you;
No one shall pass within this citadel
Who has not given the word one gives under one’s breath.
No one shall visit this temple of memory—
This temple of memory and this temple of forgetting—
And this gratitude, and this destiny filled to the brim,
And these regrets folded away on the cupboard-shelves.
No one shall visit this buried heart
Who has not ranged himself beneath your guidance
And lost himself within your august retinue
As a voice is lost within a choir complete.
And no woman shall enter into this solitude
Who is not your subject and your handmaid,
Who is not your second and your follower;
No woman shall enter into this servitude—
And no one shall cross the threshold of this palace—
The central gate, the marble forecourt,
The basin and the spring, the enclosure-yard, the tree—
Who is not your slave, one of your servants.
And no one shall pass into this fullness
Who is not your child and your servant,
As he is your serf and your debtor;
No one shall pass into this quietness—
For the purest love and the most saving,
For the cutting-off, the same regret;
No one shall pass the threshold of this secret
For the hardest love and the most statute-bound—
The ripest love, the love most full of pain,
Most full of mourning, most full of tears,
Most full of war, most full of alarms,
Most full of death at the threshold of this plain;
And for the most swollen of the oldest sob,
And for the most emptied of the old bitterness,
And for the most washed of the basest scum,
And for the most gorged with the most ancient flood;
And for the one most like that heavy cluster,
Most bound to the trellises of this wall,
Most constrained—or else most sure;
And most like, too, that fold of the tablecloth.
No one shall pass into this certainty—
For the bitter memory and the sweeter regret,
For the dreary future and the eternal heaving
Of waves of silence and of carefulness—
No one shall cross the threshold of this tomb
For an eternal worship, though still perishable,
For the deep heaving of those waves of sand
Where the foot of silence at every step falls back—
Who is not bowed toward your sacred knees,
And under your feet like a path of leaves;
Who does not consent, and yield, and make no claim, no demand,
But wills this: that by the thickness of a world
He be loved less than you.
