'The time was aeon . . .'

The time was aeon; and the place all earth. The spectacle I saw was not a dream, But true resumption of experienced things. The scene meseemed one vast deformity, Made lovely by pervasion of a spirit. For as the morning sunshine sanctifies Even the ordure of a sordid town, So all this wreck was glamoured by some charm A mystery of music. For, a Presence there Created low, rich music, endlessly. The Place was called the World, and lo! the name Of him, the unapparent spirit, was An evil Angel's; and I learnt the name Of that strange, regnant Presence as the Flesh. It bore the naked likeness of a boy Flawlessly moulded, fine exceedingly, Beautiful unsurpassably---so much More portraiture were fond futility For even thought is not long possible, Becoming too soon passion: and meseemed His outline changed, from beauty unto beauty, As change the contours of slim, sleeping clouds. His skin, too, glowed, pale scarlet like the clouds Lit from the eastern underworld; which thing Bewondered me the more. But I remember The statue of his body standing so Against the huge disorder of the place Resembled a strong music; and it triumphed Even as the trend of one clear perfect air Across confusion of a thousand chords. Then watched I how there ran towards that way A multitude of railers, hot with hate, And maddened by the voice of a small Jew Who cried with a loud voice, saying 'Away! Away with him!' and 'Crucify him! Him, With the affections and the lusts thereof.'