"Creation" by Alfred Noyes (poem)

In the beginning, there was nought
 But heaven, one majesty of Light,
Beyond all speech, beyond all thought,
 Beyond all depth, beyond all height,
Consummate heaven, the first and last,
 Enfolding in its perfect prime
No future rushing to the past,
 But one rapt Now, that knew not Space or Time.

Formless it was, being gold on gold,
 And void--but with that complete Life
Where music could no wings unfold
 Until God smote the strings of strife.
"Myself unto Myself am Throne,
 Myself unto Myself am Thrall,
I that am All am all alone,"
 He said, "Yea, I have nothing, having all."

And, gathering round His mount of bliss
 The angel-squadrons of His will,
He said, "One battle yet there is
 To win, one vision to fulfil;
Since heaven where'er I gaze expands,
 And power that knows no strife or cry,
Weakness shall bind and pierce My hands
 And make a world for Me wherein to die.

All might, all vastness and all glory
 Being Mine, I must descend and make
Out of My heart a song, a story
 Of little hearts that burn and break.
Out of My passion without end
 I will make little azure seas,
And into small sad fields descend
 And make green grass, white daisies, rustling trees."

Then shrank His angels, knowing He thrust
 His arms out East and West and gave
For every little dream of dust
 Part of His life as to a grave.
'Enough, O Father, for Thy words
 Have pierced Thy hands!' But, low and sweet,
He said 'Sunsets and streams and birds,
And drifting clouds!'--The purple stained His feet.--

'Enough!' His angels moaned in fear,
'Father, Thy words have pierced Thy side!'
He whispered, 'Roses shall grow there,
  And there must be a hawthorn-tide,
And ferns, dewy at dawn,' and still
They moaned--Enough, the red drops bleed!
'And,' sweet and low, 'on every hill,'
He said, 'I will have flocks and lambs to lead.'

His angels bowed their heads beneath
 Their wings till that great pang was gone.
Pour not Thy soul unto Death!
 They moaned, and still His Love flowed on:
"There shall be small white wings to stray
  From bliss to bliss, from bloom to bloom,
And blue flowers in the wheat; and--" 'Stay!
 Speak not,' they cried, 'the word that seals Thy tomb!'

He spake--"I have thought of the little child
 That I will have there to embark
On small adventures in the wild,
 And front slight perils in the dark;
And I will hide from him and lure
 His laughing eyes with suns and moons,
And rainbows that shall not endure;
 And--when he is weary, sing him drowsy tunes."

His angels fell before Him weeping.
 'Enough! Tempt not the Gates of Hell!'
He said, 'His soul is in his keeping
  That we may love each other well,
And lest the dark too much affright him,
 I will strow countless little stars
Across his childish skies to light him
 That he may wage in peace his mimic wars;

And oft forget Me as he plays
 With swords and childish merchansize,
Or with his elfin balance weighs,
 Or with his foot-rule metes, the skies;
Or builds his castles by the deep,
 Or tunnels through the rocks, and then--
Turn to Me as he falls asleep,
 And, in his dreams, feel for My hand again.

And when he is older he shall be
 My friend and walk here at My side;
Or--when he wills--grow young with Me,
 And, to that happy world where once we died,
Descending through the calm blue weather,
 Buy life once more with our immortal breath,
And wander through the little fields together,
 And taste of Love and Death.