THOR
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HERE
stood the great god Thor,
There he planted his foot,
And the whole world shook, from the shore
To the circle of mountains
God put
For its crown in the days of yore.
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The waves of the sea uprose,
The trees of the wood were
uptorn,
Down form the Alps’ crown of snows
The glacial avalanche borne
Thundered at daylight’s close.
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But the moon-lady curled at his feet,
Like a smoke which will
not stir,
When the summer hills swoon with the heat,
Till his passion was centred
on her,
And the shame of his yielding grew sweet.
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Empty the moon-lady’s car,
And idly it floated away,
Tipped up as she left it afar,
Pale in the red death of
day,
With its nether lip turned to a star.
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Fearful the face of the god,
Stubborn with sense of his
power,
The seas would roll back at his nod
And the thunder-voiced thunder-clouds
lower,
While the lightening he broke as a rod.
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Fearful his face was in war,
Iron with fixed look of
hate,
Through the battle-smoke thick and the roar
He strode with invincible
weight
Till the legions fell back before Thor.
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But the white thing that curled at his feet
Rose up slowly beside him
like mist,
Indefinite, wan, incomplete,
Till she touched the rope
veins on his wrist
And love pulsed to his heart with a beat.
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Then he looked, and from under her hair,
As from out of a mist grew
her eyes,
And firmer her flesh was and fair
With the tint of the sorrowful
skies,
Sun-widowed and veiled with thin air.
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She seemed of each lovable thing
The soul that infused it
with grace,
Her thoughts were the song the birds sing,
The glory of flowers was
her face
And her smile was the smile of the spring.
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Madly his blood with a bound
Leaped from his heart to
his brain,
Till his thoughts and his senses were drowned
In the ache of a longing
like a pain,
In a hush that was louder than sound.
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Then the god, bending his face,
“Loveliest,”
said he, “if death
Mocked me with skulls in this place
And age and spent strength
and spent breath,
Yet would I yield to thy grace;
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“Yet would I circle thee, love,
With these arms which are
smoking from wars,
Though the father up-gathered above,
In his anger, each ocean
that roars,
Each boulder the cataracts shove,
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“To hurl at me down from his throne,
Though the flood were as
wide as the sky.
Yea, love, I am thine, all thine own,
Strong as the ocean to lie
Slave to thy bidding alone.”
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Folds of her vesture fell soft,
As she lifted her eyes up
to his:
“Nay, love, for a man speaketh oft
In words that are hot as
a kiss,
But man’s love may be donned and be doft.”
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“Love would have life for its field—
Love would have death for
its goal;
And the passion of war must yield
To the passion of love in
the soul,
And the eyes that Love kisses are sealed.”
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“Wouldst thou love if the scorn of the world
Covered thy head with its
briars;
When, soft as an infant curled
In its cradle, thou, chained
with desires,
Lay helpless when flags were unfurled?”
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Fiercely the god's anger broke,
Fired with the flames in
his blood:
“Who careth what words may be spoke?
For the feet of this love
is a flood,
And its finger the weight of a yoke.
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“I bow me, sweet, under its power,
I, who have stooped to none;
I bring thee my strength for a dower,
And deeds like the path
of the sun;
I am thine for an age or an hour.”
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Then the moon-lady softly unwound
The girdle of arms interlaced,
And the gold of her tresses unbound,
Till it fell from her head
to her waist,
And then from her waist to the ground.
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“Love, thou art mine, thou art mine,”
Softly she uttered a spell;
“Under the froth is the wine,
Under the ocean is hell,
Over the ocean stars shine.
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“Lull him, ye winds of the South,
Charm him, ye rivers that
sing,
Flowers be the kiss on his mouth,
Let his heart be the heart
of the spring,
And his passion the hot summer drouth.”
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Swiftly extending her hands,
She made a gold dome of
her hair;
Dumb with amazement he stands,
Till down, without noise
in the air,
The moon-car descends to the sands.
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He taketh her fingers in his,
Shorn of his strength and
his will;
His brave heart trembles with bliss—
Trembles and will not be
still,
Mad with the wine of her kiss.
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They mount in the car, and its beams
Shoot over the sea and the
earth,
And clothe in a net-work of dreams
The mountains where rivers
have birth,
And the lakes that are fed by the streams.
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Swiftly ascending, the car
Silvers the clouds in its
flight,
Piercing the ether afar
Up to a bridge out of sight
That skirteth that path of a star.
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One end of the bridge lay on land,
The other hung over the
deep;
It was fashioned of ropes of grey sand,
And cemented together with
sleep,
With its undergirths formed like a hand.
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Pleasant the land to the sight,
Laden with blossoms and
trees,
And the grasses to left and to right
Waved in the wind like the
seas,
When the blue day is high in the height.
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Under the breezy bowers
Cushions of moss were laid,
And ever through sultry hours
Fairy-like fountains played,
Cooling the earth with their showers.
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The horizon was crowned with blue hills,
And woodland and meadowland
lay
Lit with the glory which thrills
Souls in some dreamland
way,
Where the nightingales sing to the rills.
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Deer and the white kine feed
On the foam-fretted shores
of the lake,
And through many a flowery mead,
And from many a forest and
brake,
The gold birds of paradise speed.
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The lissome moon-lady led on
Up to a bower on a hill
With the flowers at its door rained upon
By a fountain as constant
and still
As the bow in the cloud that has gone.
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“O love, thou art weary,” she said,
“Who erst wast so
valiant and strong,
And here will I make thee a bed,
And here will I sing thee
a song
To the tune of the leaves overhead.
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“And here will thy great strength flow,
Melted away in the sweet,
Soft touch of ineffable woe,
Which is heart of the joy
made complete,
And the taste of the pleasure we know.”
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Where the mosses were piled in a heap,
He laid his giant form down,
And she charmed all his senses to sleep,
With her hands on his head
like a crown,
Till the sound of his breathing was deep.
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With a noise like a serpent’s hiss,
The moon-lady bent her head,
And she sucked out his breath with a kiss—
A kiss that was subtle and
dread,
Like the sorrow which lurks in a bliss.
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Then she rose and waved her hands
In circles over the sod,
And her gold hair wove in strands
Round the limbs of the sleeping
god,
With the strength of adamant bands.
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She opened the great, clenched fist,
And softly the lady withdrew,
Was it only a serpent that hissed?
For her face is transparent
as dew,
And her garments are thin as the mist.
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Spell-bound on the dreamland floor,
Chained with the golden
hair,
Weak as a babe lay Thor,
While the fountain played
soft in the air,
And the nightingales sang evermore.
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Like a babe in its cradle curled,
He was chained with his
chain of desires,
Though they needed his arm in the world,
For the battle-strife raged,
and its fires
And the flags of the gods were unfurled.
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Then Odin, the father of Heaven,
Called a council of gods
on high,
To each was a white cloud given
At the foot of his throne
in the sky,
And the steps of his throne were seven.
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“Children,” the father cried,
“Lost is the great
god Thor,
Lost is the sword at his side,
Lost is his arm in the war,
And the fury which all things defied.
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“In the heart of a dreamland bower,
Sleepeth he under a spell,
For he yielded his strength for an hour,
And under the meshes of
Hell
He is chained by invincible power.
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“None may the meshes unbind;
Strength must return to
his will,
And himself must unshackle his mind
From the dreams he is dreaming
still,
In the moon-lady’s tresses entwined.
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“Over the mountains the road,
Dismal and drear to return,
Face it he must with his load,
Though the underbrakes crackle
and burn,
Though the serpent-bites blister and goad.
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“Not a mere shadow is sin,
Clinging like wine to the
lip,
To be wiped from the mouth and the chin
After man taketh a sip;
But a poison that lurketh within.
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“The forces that hold back the sea,
That grapple the earth from
beneath,
Are not older than those which decree
The marriage of sin unto
death
In the sinner, whoever he be.
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“Who of our numbers will go
Up to the death-tainted
land,
Braving the dangers, and so
Reaching the heart and
the hand
And the form of the god lying low?”
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“Sire,” answered Balder the fair,
“Rugged the journey
and long,
Manifold dangers are there,
But my heart and my arms
are strong,
And my soul is as pure as the air.
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“I will go, for we need him in war,
And without him we struggle
and die;
I will put on the armour he bore
And gird on his sword to
my thigh;
I will sit by and say, ‘I am Thor.’
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“Perchance when he opens his eyes,
Shorn of his own armour-plate,
Smitten with rage and surprise,
Burning with anger and hate,
He will burst from the bed where he lies.
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“Swift as the kiss of the fire,
Knowledge shall flash to
his brain,
And the thought of his past self inspire
His spirit with valour again,
Till he shatter the bonds of desire.”
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So Balder, the fairest of all,
And purest of gods by the
throne,
Went from the heavenly hall
Into the darkness alone,
To loosen the god from his thrall.
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Black was the charger he rode,
Winged, and its eye-balls
of fire;
From mountain to mountain it trode,
Spurning the valleys as
mire,
Till it sprang into air with its load.
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Then swift, with its neck side-curled,
Half hid in the smoke of
its breath,
Upward it bounded, and hurled
Volleys and splinters of
death
From the fire of its hoofs on the world.
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The moon-lady leaned from her car
And beheld the fierce course
of the god,
For, as though with the birth of a star,
A fire track as straight
as a rod
Burnt in the heavens afar.
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Then she trembled and sickened with fear,
Till her face grew as white
as the mist
When at day-dawn the stars disappear,
And her body did coil and
untwist
Like a serpent’s folds caught in a weir.
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Her heart was a fire that was spent,
Her lips could not utter
a charm,
And she cowered from his sight as he went,
While Balder flew by without
harm,
’Neath the shield of a pure intent.
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He came to the moon-lady’s bower,
And girded the sword to
his thigh,
And put on the cincture of power,
Unbound from the god lying
by,
Nor waited a day nor an hour;
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For, startled, the sleeper awoke,
Black-visaged, like a storm
on the skies;
But Balder sat upright, nor spoke,
Till the flames darted
out of Thor’s eyes,
And the passionate silence he broke.
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“Who is it, when dreaming is o’er,
Mocks me with helm like
to mine,
Ungirding the armour I bore,
From the sweet silken nets
that entwine?
Quoth Balder, “Behold! I am Thor.
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“I am he that was ‘Thunderer’
called,
And my fame is as wide as
the world;
At my anger the rocks were appalled,
And the waves of the sea
were up-curled,
But now I am weak and enthralled.
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“The battle is fierce on the earth,
While I sit here idle and
still;
Unfulfilled are the hopes of my birth,
For the strength of the
mind is the will,
And the will is more potent than girth.
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“The foes of the gods wax bold,
And they mock at the armies
of heaven;
At their banquets the story is told—
‘A weak woman’s
heart hath been given
To Thor, the avenger of old.’
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“And the wives as they sit by the cot,
Sing, ‘Sleep, for
the god cannot come;
Sleep, the avenger is not;
Hush, let his praises be
dumb;
Hush, let his name be forgot.’”
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Then the god, smitten with pain,
Shamèd and stung
to the heart,
Knowing a god's voice again,
Rending his fetters apart,
Sprang from the moon-lady’s chain.
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Instantly vanished in night
Fountains and meadows and
streams,
Never a glimmer of light
Lit up the palace of dreams,
As the god made his way, without sight,
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Back to the heavenly shore,
Over mountain and wild ravine,
Morasses, and seas that roar,
Till the portals of heaven
were seen
And he stood in Valhalla once more.
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