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Christopher Brennan - Wisdom
Work rating: Low

I
 Northward, he dream`d, in Judah`s vine-clad hills, 
 of gold and gems, earth`s jealous-hoarded flower, 
 garner`d within Jehovah`s temple-sills: 
 and sterile wisdom crown`d his brow with power. 
 Where burnt Arabia, named the Happy, spills 
 above the silken seas that gird her bower 
 rich heat of spice her chymic sun distils, 
 she dwelt, and lonely beauty was her dower. 
 The desert lay between them; yet they knew 
 each one of each, and love and longing grew: 
 she came: and desert blossom`d where she came. 
 And now their tale beguiles a wandering race 
 where, parch`d by the hard sun`s indifferent flame, 
 one yellow desert billows o`er their place. 

II.
 Because he felt against his hundred years 
 the beating of the wings of Azrael, 
 the Master, he that watch`d o`er Afrit fears 
 building the Temple incorruptible, 
 palm-propt on guile of cedarn wands, uprears 
 his dreadful stature in the crystal cell 
 that thence, tho` death unsaint their magian spheres, 
 erect, his eyes might dwell, implacable. 
 So, when at last the worm-pierc`d cedar snapt 
 and, at the sound of his great fall, the Jinn 
 sail`d clamorously towards Eblis, disabused, 
 long since his temple-tomb stood builded apt 
 where we might feel the night that haunts our sin 
 vaster, that once a mighty spirit mused. 

III
 Where Soliman-ben-Daoud sleeps, unshown 
 to mortal eye, the vaulted bay of gloom 
 stagnates, aloft, into the pendent stone, 
 his Temple`s roots, long wither`d in his tomb. 
 Chin-high against his flaming sword, alone, 
 brooding far hence in heaven`s untarnish`d bloom, 
 a seraph bars all passage to the throne 
 where, priestly dight, the Master bides the doom. 
 Dully his mitre blazes o`er his brow 
 whereunder the dead eyes, wide-set, avow 
 the terror of the day that he awaits: 
 and, o`er his mitre`s peak, his word of might, 
 figured in solid fire, irradiates 
 its sterile secret into oblivious night. 

IIII
 In Eblis` ward now fall`n, where wisdom rose, 
 beyond the East and past the fane-strown sands, 
 are jasper caverns hewn of Afrit hands, 
 whereover Caf hath hung its huge repose. 
 There, in the limpid pave, a cloudy rose 
 mirrors eternal agony, in bands 
 of saddening purple shed from shrouded strands 
 where the snared sun a fix`d disaster glows. 
 A ruby of harden`d flame, an ice-bound woe, 
 burns in their crystal breast whose wizard brow 
 was gemm`d with name of Soliman long before 
 him shaped that pluck`d the golden apple low: 
 they royal with this only magic now 
 that, dying, they die not for evermore.
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