THEaimless business of your feet,Your swinging wheels and piston rods,The smoke of every sullen streetHave passed away with all your Gods.For in a meadow far from theseA hodman treads across the loam,Bearing his solid sanctitiesTo that strange altar called his home.I watch the tall, sagacious treesTurn as the monks do, every one;The saplings, ardent novices,Turning with them towards the sun,That Monstrance held in God’s strong hands,Burnished in amber and in red;God, His Own priest, in blessing stands;The earth, adoring, bows her head.The idols of your market place,Your high debates, where are they now?Your lawyers’ clamour fades apace—A bird is singing on the bough!Three fragile, sacramental thingsEndure, though all your pomps shall pass—A butterfly’s immortal wings,A daisy and a blade of grass.
THEaimless business of your feet,Your swinging wheels and piston rods,The smoke of every sullen streetHave passed away with all your Gods.For in a meadow far from theseA hodman treads across the loam,Bearing his solid sanctitiesTo that strange altar called his home.I watch the tall, sagacious treesTurn as the monks do, every one;The saplings, ardent novices,Turning with them towards the sun,That Monstrance held in God’s strong hands,Burnished in amber and in red;God, His Own priest, in blessing stands;The earth, adoring, bows her head.The idols of your market place,Your high debates, where are they now?Your lawyers’ clamour fades apace—A bird is singing on the bough!Three fragile, sacramental thingsEndure, though all your pomps shall pass—A butterfly’s immortal wings,A daisy and a blade of grass.
THEaimless business of your feet,Your swinging wheels and piston rods,The smoke of every sullen streetHave passed away with all your Gods.
For in a meadow far from theseA hodman treads across the loam,Bearing his solid sanctitiesTo that strange altar called his home.
I watch the tall, sagacious treesTurn as the monks do, every one;The saplings, ardent novices,Turning with them towards the sun,
That Monstrance held in God’s strong hands,Burnished in amber and in red;God, His Own priest, in blessing stands;The earth, adoring, bows her head.
The idols of your market place,Your high debates, where are they now?Your lawyers’ clamour fades apace—A bird is singing on the bough!
Three fragile, sacramental thingsEndure, though all your pomps shall pass—A butterfly’s immortal wings,A daisy and a blade of grass.
“And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the firstheaven and the first earth were passed away.”—Apoc.. xxi,I.
SHALLsummer woods where we have laughed our fill;Shall all your grass so good to walk upon;Each field which we have loved, each little hillBe burnt like paper—as hath said Saint John?Then not alone they die! For God hath toldHow all His plains of mingled fire and glass,His walls of hyacinth, His streets of gold,His aureoles of jewelled light shall pass,That He may make us nobler things than these,And in her royal robes of blazing redAdorn His bride. Yea, with what mysteriesAnd might and mirth shall she be diamonded!And what new secrets shall our God disclose;Or set what suns of burnished brass to flare;Or what empurpled blooms to oust the rose;Or what strange grass to glow like angels’ hair!What pinnacles of silver tracery,What dizzy rampired towers shall God deviseOf topaz, beryl and chalcedonyTo make Heaven pleasant to His children’s eyes!And in what cataclysms of flame and foamShall the first Heaven sink—as red as sin—When God hath Cast aside His ancient homeAs far too mean to house His Children in!
SHALLsummer woods where we have laughed our fill;Shall all your grass so good to walk upon;Each field which we have loved, each little hillBe burnt like paper—as hath said Saint John?Then not alone they die! For God hath toldHow all His plains of mingled fire and glass,His walls of hyacinth, His streets of gold,His aureoles of jewelled light shall pass,That He may make us nobler things than these,And in her royal robes of blazing redAdorn His bride. Yea, with what mysteriesAnd might and mirth shall she be diamonded!And what new secrets shall our God disclose;Or set what suns of burnished brass to flare;Or what empurpled blooms to oust the rose;Or what strange grass to glow like angels’ hair!What pinnacles of silver tracery,What dizzy rampired towers shall God deviseOf topaz, beryl and chalcedonyTo make Heaven pleasant to His children’s eyes!And in what cataclysms of flame and foamShall the first Heaven sink—as red as sin—When God hath Cast aside His ancient homeAs far too mean to house His Children in!
SHALLsummer woods where we have laughed our fill;Shall all your grass so good to walk upon;Each field which we have loved, each little hillBe burnt like paper—as hath said Saint John?
Then not alone they die! For God hath toldHow all His plains of mingled fire and glass,His walls of hyacinth, His streets of gold,His aureoles of jewelled light shall pass,
That He may make us nobler things than these,And in her royal robes of blazing redAdorn His bride. Yea, with what mysteriesAnd might and mirth shall she be diamonded!
And what new secrets shall our God disclose;Or set what suns of burnished brass to flare;Or what empurpled blooms to oust the rose;Or what strange grass to glow like angels’ hair!
What pinnacles of silver tracery,What dizzy rampired towers shall God deviseOf topaz, beryl and chalcedonyTo make Heaven pleasant to His children’s eyes!
And in what cataclysms of flame and foamShall the first Heaven sink—as red as sin—When God hath Cast aside His ancient homeAs far too mean to house His Children in!
SOMEdismal nights there are when spirits walkWho lived and died unhappy in their time,To waste the air with vows and whispered talkOf tarnished love or hate or secret crime—But now the moon moves splendid through the sky;The night is brilliant like a silver shield;And in their cavalcades come riding byThe mighty dead of many a tented field.On this one night at least of all the yearThe lists are set again, the lines are drawn;Again resounds the clang of horse and spear;The sweet applause of ladies, till the dawnMakes glad the souls of vizored knights—then they,Hearing that seneschal, the cock, all troop away.
SOMEdismal nights there are when spirits walkWho lived and died unhappy in their time,To waste the air with vows and whispered talkOf tarnished love or hate or secret crime—But now the moon moves splendid through the sky;The night is brilliant like a silver shield;And in their cavalcades come riding byThe mighty dead of many a tented field.On this one night at least of all the yearThe lists are set again, the lines are drawn;Again resounds the clang of horse and spear;The sweet applause of ladies, till the dawnMakes glad the souls of vizored knights—then they,Hearing that seneschal, the cock, all troop away.
SOMEdismal nights there are when spirits walkWho lived and died unhappy in their time,To waste the air with vows and whispered talkOf tarnished love or hate or secret crime—But now the moon moves splendid through the sky;The night is brilliant like a silver shield;And in their cavalcades come riding byThe mighty dead of many a tented field.On this one night at least of all the yearThe lists are set again, the lines are drawn;Again resounds the clang of horse and spear;The sweet applause of ladies, till the dawnMakes glad the souls of vizored knights—then they,Hearing that seneschal, the cock, all troop away.
SEEhow the plated gates unfold,How swing the creaking doors of brass!With drums and gleaming arms, beholdChrist’s regal cohorts pass!Shall Christ not have His chosen men,Nor lead His crested knights so tall,Superb upon their horses, whenThe world’s last cities fall?Ah, no! These few, the maimed, the dumb,The saints of every lazar’s den,The earth’s off-scourings—they comeFrom desert and from fenTo break the terror of the night,Black dreams and dreadful mysteries,And proud, lost empires in their might,And chains and tyrannies.There ride no gold-encinctured kingsAgainst the potentates of earth;God chooses all the weakest things,And gives Himself in birthWith beaten slaves to draw His breath,And sleeps with foxes on the moor,With malefactors shares His death,Tattered and worn and poor.See how the plated gates unfold,How swing the creaking doors of brass!Victorious in defeat—behold,Christ and His cohorts pass!
SEEhow the plated gates unfold,How swing the creaking doors of brass!With drums and gleaming arms, beholdChrist’s regal cohorts pass!Shall Christ not have His chosen men,Nor lead His crested knights so tall,Superb upon their horses, whenThe world’s last cities fall?Ah, no! These few, the maimed, the dumb,The saints of every lazar’s den,The earth’s off-scourings—they comeFrom desert and from fenTo break the terror of the night,Black dreams and dreadful mysteries,And proud, lost empires in their might,And chains and tyrannies.There ride no gold-encinctured kingsAgainst the potentates of earth;God chooses all the weakest things,And gives Himself in birthWith beaten slaves to draw His breath,And sleeps with foxes on the moor,With malefactors shares His death,Tattered and worn and poor.See how the plated gates unfold,How swing the creaking doors of brass!Victorious in defeat—behold,Christ and His cohorts pass!
SEEhow the plated gates unfold,How swing the creaking doors of brass!With drums and gleaming arms, beholdChrist’s regal cohorts pass!
Shall Christ not have His chosen men,Nor lead His crested knights so tall,Superb upon their horses, whenThe world’s last cities fall?
Ah, no! These few, the maimed, the dumb,The saints of every lazar’s den,The earth’s off-scourings—they comeFrom desert and from fen
To break the terror of the night,Black dreams and dreadful mysteries,And proud, lost empires in their might,And chains and tyrannies.
There ride no gold-encinctured kingsAgainst the potentates of earth;God chooses all the weakest things,And gives Himself in birthWith beaten slaves to draw His breath,And sleeps with foxes on the moor,With malefactors shares His death,Tattered and worn and poor.
See how the plated gates unfold,How swing the creaking doors of brass!Victorious in defeat—behold,Christ and His cohorts pass!
THEstars with their laughter are shaken;The long waves laugh at sea;And the little Imp of LaughterLaughs in the soul of me.I know the guffaw of a tempest,The mirth of a blossom and bud—But I laugh when I think of Cuchulain[A]who laughedAt the Crows with their bills in his blood.The mother laughs low at her baby,The bridegroom with joy in his bride—And I think that Christ laughed when they took Him with stavesOn the night before He died.
THEstars with their laughter are shaken;The long waves laugh at sea;And the little Imp of LaughterLaughs in the soul of me.I know the guffaw of a tempest,The mirth of a blossom and bud—But I laugh when I think of Cuchulain[A]who laughedAt the Crows with their bills in his blood.The mother laughs low at her baby,The bridegroom with joy in his bride—And I think that Christ laughed when they took Him with stavesOn the night before He died.
THEstars with their laughter are shaken;The long waves laugh at sea;And the little Imp of LaughterLaughs in the soul of me.
I know the guffaw of a tempest,The mirth of a blossom and bud—But I laugh when I think of Cuchulain[A]who laughedAt the Crows with their bills in his blood.
The mother laughs low at her baby,The bridegroom with joy in his bride—And I think that Christ laughed when they took Him with stavesOn the night before He died.
[A]Pronounced Cuhúlain.
[A]Pronounced Cuhúlain.
(Made after a walk through Surrey and Sussex.)
I’VEtrudged along the Pilgrims’ Way,And from St. Martha’s Hill looked downO’er Surrey woods and fields which layGreen in the sunlight. On the crownOf Hindhead and the Punchbowl’s brinkOf no good thing I’ve been bereaven:But Arundel’s the place for drink—The pubs keep open till eleven.White chalk-cliffs and the stubborn clayAre thrown about, and many a townBreaks on the sight like breaking day;But after all, who but a clownCould Arundel with Midhurst link,Where men go dry from two till seven?InArundel(no truth I’ll shrink)The pubs keep open till eleven.A great cool church where men can praySecure from misbelieving frown;And in the Square, I beg to say,The beer is strong and rich and brown.Some poor, misguided people thinkPetworth’s the spot that’s nearest Heaven:InArundelthe ale-pots clink—The pubs keep open till eleven.
I’VEtrudged along the Pilgrims’ Way,And from St. Martha’s Hill looked downO’er Surrey woods and fields which layGreen in the sunlight. On the crownOf Hindhead and the Punchbowl’s brinkOf no good thing I’ve been bereaven:But Arundel’s the place for drink—The pubs keep open till eleven.White chalk-cliffs and the stubborn clayAre thrown about, and many a townBreaks on the sight like breaking day;But after all, who but a clownCould Arundel with Midhurst link,Where men go dry from two till seven?InArundel(no truth I’ll shrink)The pubs keep open till eleven.A great cool church where men can praySecure from misbelieving frown;And in the Square, I beg to say,The beer is strong and rich and brown.Some poor, misguided people thinkPetworth’s the spot that’s nearest Heaven:InArundelthe ale-pots clink—The pubs keep open till eleven.
I’VEtrudged along the Pilgrims’ Way,And from St. Martha’s Hill looked downO’er Surrey woods and fields which layGreen in the sunlight. On the crownOf Hindhead and the Punchbowl’s brinkOf no good thing I’ve been bereaven:But Arundel’s the place for drink—The pubs keep open till eleven.
White chalk-cliffs and the stubborn clayAre thrown about, and many a townBreaks on the sight like breaking day;But after all, who but a clownCould Arundel with Midhurst link,Where men go dry from two till seven?InArundel(no truth I’ll shrink)The pubs keep open till eleven.
A great cool church where men can praySecure from misbelieving frown;And in the Square, I beg to say,The beer is strong and rich and brown.Some poor, misguided people thinkPetworth’s the spot that’s nearest Heaven:InArundelthe ale-pots clink—The pubs keep open till eleven.
Duke, at the dreadful Judgment DayYour soul will surely be well shriven,For then all angel trumps shall bray,He kept pubs open till eleven!
Duke, at the dreadful Judgment DayYour soul will surely be well shriven,For then all angel trumps shall bray,He kept pubs open till eleven!
Duke, at the dreadful Judgment DayYour soul will surely be well shriven,For then all angel trumps shall bray,He kept pubs open till eleven!
MYbrothers stay in citiesTo gather shame and gold,But I am for the highwayAnd the wind upon the wold.They take the train each morningTo a dull, bricked-up place;I trudge the living countryWith the sunlight on my face.I know no home or shelter,No bed but good green grass,Nor any friends but hedgerowsTo greet me as I pass.But though the road still calls meTo places wild and steep,I find the going heavy;My eyes are full of sleep.The fields lie all about me;The trees are gay with sap—As I go weary, wearyTo my great mother’s lap,To rest me with my mother,The kindly earth so brown.And Lord! But well contentedI’ll lay my carcase down.
MYbrothers stay in citiesTo gather shame and gold,But I am for the highwayAnd the wind upon the wold.They take the train each morningTo a dull, bricked-up place;I trudge the living countryWith the sunlight on my face.I know no home or shelter,No bed but good green grass,Nor any friends but hedgerowsTo greet me as I pass.But though the road still calls meTo places wild and steep,I find the going heavy;My eyes are full of sleep.The fields lie all about me;The trees are gay with sap—As I go weary, wearyTo my great mother’s lap,To rest me with my mother,The kindly earth so brown.And Lord! But well contentedI’ll lay my carcase down.
MYbrothers stay in citiesTo gather shame and gold,But I am for the highwayAnd the wind upon the wold.
They take the train each morningTo a dull, bricked-up place;I trudge the living countryWith the sunlight on my face.
I know no home or shelter,No bed but good green grass,Nor any friends but hedgerowsTo greet me as I pass.
But though the road still calls meTo places wild and steep,I find the going heavy;My eyes are full of sleep.
The fields lie all about me;The trees are gay with sap—As I go weary, wearyTo my great mother’s lap,
To rest me with my mother,The kindly earth so brown.And Lord! But well contentedI’ll lay my carcase down.
AMISERwith an eager faceSees that each roseleaf is in place.He keeps beneath strong bolts and barsThe piercing beauty of the stars.The colours of the dying dayHe hoards as treasure—well He may!—And saves with care (lest they be lost)The dainty diagrams of frost.He counts the hairs of every head,And grieves to see a sparrow dead.
AMISERwith an eager faceSees that each roseleaf is in place.He keeps beneath strong bolts and barsThe piercing beauty of the stars.The colours of the dying dayHe hoards as treasure—well He may!—And saves with care (lest they be lost)The dainty diagrams of frost.He counts the hairs of every head,And grieves to see a sparrow dead.
AMISERwith an eager faceSees that each roseleaf is in place.
He keeps beneath strong bolts and barsThe piercing beauty of the stars.
The colours of the dying dayHe hoards as treasure—well He may!—
And saves with care (lest they be lost)The dainty diagrams of frost.
He counts the hairs of every head,And grieves to see a sparrow dead.
Among the yellow primrosesHe holds His summer palaces,And sets the grass about them allTo guard them as His spearmen small.He fixes on each wayside stoneA mark to shew it as His Own,And knows when raindrops fall through airWhether each single one be there,That gathered into ponds and brooksThey may become His picture-books,To shew in every spot and placeThe living glory of His face.
Among the yellow primrosesHe holds His summer palaces,And sets the grass about them allTo guard them as His spearmen small.He fixes on each wayside stoneA mark to shew it as His Own,And knows when raindrops fall through airWhether each single one be there,That gathered into ponds and brooksThey may become His picture-books,To shew in every spot and placeThe living glory of His face.
Among the yellow primrosesHe holds His summer palaces,
And sets the grass about them allTo guard them as His spearmen small.
He fixes on each wayside stoneA mark to shew it as His Own,
And knows when raindrops fall through airWhether each single one be there,
That gathered into ponds and brooksThey may become His picture-books,
To shew in every spot and placeThe living glory of His face.
AMONGthe gay, exultant trees,Over the green and growing grass,Clothed in immortal mysteries,I see His living body pass.The catkins fling abroad His name,While birds from every bush and sprayStrain feathered necks, and tipped with flameThe hills all stand to greet His day.Each violet and bluebell curledWakes with the dead Christ’s waking eye,And like burst gravestones clouds are hurledAcross the wide and waiting sky.And drenched, for very height of mirth,With clean white tears of April rain,Like Mary Magdalene the earthFinds April’s risen Lord again.
AMONGthe gay, exultant trees,Over the green and growing grass,Clothed in immortal mysteries,I see His living body pass.The catkins fling abroad His name,While birds from every bush and sprayStrain feathered necks, and tipped with flameThe hills all stand to greet His day.Each violet and bluebell curledWakes with the dead Christ’s waking eye,And like burst gravestones clouds are hurledAcross the wide and waiting sky.And drenched, for very height of mirth,With clean white tears of April rain,Like Mary Magdalene the earthFinds April’s risen Lord again.
AMONGthe gay, exultant trees,Over the green and growing grass,Clothed in immortal mysteries,I see His living body pass.
The catkins fling abroad His name,While birds from every bush and sprayStrain feathered necks, and tipped with flameThe hills all stand to greet His day.
Each violet and bluebell curledWakes with the dead Christ’s waking eye,And like burst gravestones clouds are hurledAcross the wide and waiting sky.
And drenched, for very height of mirth,With clean white tears of April rain,Like Mary Magdalene the earthFinds April’s risen Lord again.
THEglory of the Oriflamme,Or strange, red flowers of the SouthHold no such splendours as lie hidIn your sweet mouth!The secret honey of the Cliff,The lure and laughter of the seaAre not the dear delight that isYour face to me!What wilful trees of any springThan your young body are more fair?What glamour of forgotten goldLurks in your hair?The glory of the Oriflamme,Or strange, red flowers of the SouthHold no such splendours as lie hidIn your sweet mouth!
THEglory of the Oriflamme,Or strange, red flowers of the SouthHold no such splendours as lie hidIn your sweet mouth!The secret honey of the Cliff,The lure and laughter of the seaAre not the dear delight that isYour face to me!What wilful trees of any springThan your young body are more fair?What glamour of forgotten goldLurks in your hair?The glory of the Oriflamme,Or strange, red flowers of the SouthHold no such splendours as lie hidIn your sweet mouth!
THEglory of the Oriflamme,Or strange, red flowers of the SouthHold no such splendours as lie hidIn your sweet mouth!
The secret honey of the Cliff,The lure and laughter of the seaAre not the dear delight that isYour face to me!
What wilful trees of any springThan your young body are more fair?What glamour of forgotten goldLurks in your hair?
The glory of the Oriflamme,Or strange, red flowers of the SouthHold no such splendours as lie hidIn your sweet mouth!
THATyou can keep your crested courage high,And hopeless hope without a cause, and wageChrist’s warfare, lacking all the panoplyOf Faith which shall endure the end of age,You must be made of finely tempered stuff,And have a kinship with that Spanish saint,Who wrote of his soul’s night—it was enoughThat he should drag his footsteps tired and faintAlong his God-appointed pathway. YouHave stood against our day of bitter scorn,When loudly its triumphant trumpets blewContempt of all God’s poor. Had you been bornBut in the time of Jeanne or Catharine,Whose charity was as a sword of flame,With those who drank up martyrdom like wineHad stood your aureoled and ringing name.Yet, when that secret day of God shall breakWith strange and splendid justice through the skies,When last are first, then star-ward you shall takeThe praise and sorrow of your starry eyes.
THATyou can keep your crested courage high,And hopeless hope without a cause, and wageChrist’s warfare, lacking all the panoplyOf Faith which shall endure the end of age,You must be made of finely tempered stuff,And have a kinship with that Spanish saint,Who wrote of his soul’s night—it was enoughThat he should drag his footsteps tired and faintAlong his God-appointed pathway. YouHave stood against our day of bitter scorn,When loudly its triumphant trumpets blewContempt of all God’s poor. Had you been bornBut in the time of Jeanne or Catharine,Whose charity was as a sword of flame,With those who drank up martyrdom like wineHad stood your aureoled and ringing name.Yet, when that secret day of God shall breakWith strange and splendid justice through the skies,When last are first, then star-ward you shall takeThe praise and sorrow of your starry eyes.
THATyou can keep your crested courage high,And hopeless hope without a cause, and wageChrist’s warfare, lacking all the panoplyOf Faith which shall endure the end of age,
You must be made of finely tempered stuff,And have a kinship with that Spanish saint,Who wrote of his soul’s night—it was enoughThat he should drag his footsteps tired and faint
Along his God-appointed pathway. YouHave stood against our day of bitter scorn,When loudly its triumphant trumpets blewContempt of all God’s poor. Had you been born
But in the time of Jeanne or Catharine,Whose charity was as a sword of flame,With those who drank up martyrdom like wineHad stood your aureoled and ringing name.
Yet, when that secret day of God shall breakWith strange and splendid justice through the skies,When last are first, then star-ward you shall takeThe praise and sorrow of your starry eyes.
who wrote what he called a trinity of meek retorts to the precedingpoem, which were not meek, but full of pride andabominable heresy
who wrote what he called a trinity of meek retorts to the precedingpoem, which were not meek, but full of pride andabominable heresy
who wrote what he called a trinity of meek retorts to the precedingpoem, which were not meek, but full of pride andabominable heresy
YOUdo not love the shadows on the wall,Or mists that flee before a blowing wind,Or Gothic forests, or light aspen leaves,Or skies that melt into a dreamy sea.In the hot, glaring noontide of your mind(I have your word for it) there is no roomFor anything save sawdust, sun and sand.No monkish flourishes will do for you;Your life must be set down in black and white.The quiet half-light of the abbey close,The cunning carvings of a chantry tomb,The leaden windows pricked with golden saints—All these are nothing to your ragtime soul!Yet, since you are a solemn little chap,In spite of all your blasphemy and booze,That dreadful sword of satire which you shakeHurts no hide but your own,—you cannot useA weapon which is bigger than yourself.Yet some there were who rode all clad in mail,—With crosses blazoned on their mighty shields,Roland who blew his horn against the Moor,Richard who charged for Christ at Ascalon,Louis a pilgrim with his chivalry,And Blessed Jeanne who saved the crown of France—Pah! you may keep your whining Superman!
YOUdo not love the shadows on the wall,Or mists that flee before a blowing wind,Or Gothic forests, or light aspen leaves,Or skies that melt into a dreamy sea.In the hot, glaring noontide of your mind(I have your word for it) there is no roomFor anything save sawdust, sun and sand.No monkish flourishes will do for you;Your life must be set down in black and white.The quiet half-light of the abbey close,The cunning carvings of a chantry tomb,The leaden windows pricked with golden saints—All these are nothing to your ragtime soul!Yet, since you are a solemn little chap,In spite of all your blasphemy and booze,That dreadful sword of satire which you shakeHurts no hide but your own,—you cannot useA weapon which is bigger than yourself.Yet some there were who rode all clad in mail,—With crosses blazoned on their mighty shields,Roland who blew his horn against the Moor,Richard who charged for Christ at Ascalon,Louis a pilgrim with his chivalry,And Blessed Jeanne who saved the crown of France—Pah! you may keep your whining Superman!
YOUdo not love the shadows on the wall,Or mists that flee before a blowing wind,Or Gothic forests, or light aspen leaves,Or skies that melt into a dreamy sea.In the hot, glaring noontide of your mind(I have your word for it) there is no roomFor anything save sawdust, sun and sand.
No monkish flourishes will do for you;Your life must be set down in black and white.The quiet half-light of the abbey close,The cunning carvings of a chantry tomb,The leaden windows pricked with golden saints—All these are nothing to your ragtime soul!
Yet, since you are a solemn little chap,In spite of all your blasphemy and booze,That dreadful sword of satire which you shakeHurts no hide but your own,—you cannot useA weapon which is bigger than yourself.
Yet some there were who rode all clad in mail,—With crosses blazoned on their mighty shields,Roland who blew his horn against the Moor,Richard who charged for Christ at Ascalon,Louis a pilgrim with his chivalry,And Blessed Jeanne who saved the crown of France—Pah! you may keep your whining Superman!
THEgrey hairs of CaiaphasShall know the truth to-day,For kingly, riding on an ass,The Truth has come his way.(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)Caiaphas waxes eloquentOn tittle and on jot,But when they cry “Hosanna!”Caiaphas answers not.(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)In the temple of CaiaphasStand two gold seraphim—They do not worship Christ nor shoutAs the grey stones shout for Him.(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)The vestments of CaiaphasWith gold and silver shone—They would get soiled if he cast them downFor the ass to walk upon.(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)The religion of CaiaphasIs very spick and span,It does not love the ill-bred mob,The homespun Son of Man!(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)The dark soul of CaiaphasIs full of sin and pride;It does not know the splendourOr the triumph of that ride!(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)
THEgrey hairs of CaiaphasShall know the truth to-day,For kingly, riding on an ass,The Truth has come his way.(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)Caiaphas waxes eloquentOn tittle and on jot,But when they cry “Hosanna!”Caiaphas answers not.(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)In the temple of CaiaphasStand two gold seraphim—They do not worship Christ nor shoutAs the grey stones shout for Him.(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)The vestments of CaiaphasWith gold and silver shone—They would get soiled if he cast them downFor the ass to walk upon.(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)The religion of CaiaphasIs very spick and span,It does not love the ill-bred mob,The homespun Son of Man!(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)The dark soul of CaiaphasIs full of sin and pride;It does not know the splendourOr the triumph of that ride!(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)
THEgrey hairs of CaiaphasShall know the truth to-day,For kingly, riding on an ass,The Truth has come his way.
(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)
Caiaphas waxes eloquentOn tittle and on jot,But when they cry “Hosanna!”Caiaphas answers not.
(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)
In the temple of CaiaphasStand two gold seraphim—They do not worship Christ nor shoutAs the grey stones shout for Him.
(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)
The vestments of CaiaphasWith gold and silver shone—They would get soiled if he cast them downFor the ass to walk upon.
(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)
The religion of CaiaphasIs very spick and span,It does not love the ill-bred mob,The homespun Son of Man!
(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)
The dark soul of CaiaphasIs full of sin and pride;It does not know the splendourOr the triumph of that ride!
(A thornbush grows upon the hill,And Golgotha is empty still!)
WHENI go riding into the town,When I ride into the town,I fill my skin at the nearest innWhen I ride into the town.Oh, what is there then to trouble about?There are no such things as despair and doubt—For when ale goes in the truth comes out,When I ride into the town!When I go riding out of the town,When I ride out of the town,I have my men behind me thenWhen I ride out of the town;Halberd, battle-axe, culverin, bow,Four hundred strong as out we go,Four hundred yeomen to meet the foe,When I ride out of the town!When I ride into the Town of Death—That strange and unknown town!—It will not be allcap-à-pie,But with sword and lance laid down.Then may our Lady beside me stand;Saint Michael guard at my good right hand—God rest my soul and the souls of my band,When we ride into the Town!
WHENI go riding into the town,When I ride into the town,I fill my skin at the nearest innWhen I ride into the town.Oh, what is there then to trouble about?There are no such things as despair and doubt—For when ale goes in the truth comes out,When I ride into the town!When I go riding out of the town,When I ride out of the town,I have my men behind me thenWhen I ride out of the town;Halberd, battle-axe, culverin, bow,Four hundred strong as out we go,Four hundred yeomen to meet the foe,When I ride out of the town!When I ride into the Town of Death—That strange and unknown town!—It will not be allcap-à-pie,But with sword and lance laid down.Then may our Lady beside me stand;Saint Michael guard at my good right hand—God rest my soul and the souls of my band,When we ride into the Town!
WHENI go riding into the town,When I ride into the town,I fill my skin at the nearest innWhen I ride into the town.Oh, what is there then to trouble about?There are no such things as despair and doubt—For when ale goes in the truth comes out,When I ride into the town!
When I go riding out of the town,When I ride out of the town,I have my men behind me thenWhen I ride out of the town;Halberd, battle-axe, culverin, bow,Four hundred strong as out we go,Four hundred yeomen to meet the foe,When I ride out of the town!
When I ride into the Town of Death—That strange and unknown town!—It will not be allcap-à-pie,But with sword and lance laid down.Then may our Lady beside me stand;Saint Michael guard at my good right hand—God rest my soul and the souls of my band,When we ride into the Town!
WHENmy last song is sung and I am deadAnd laid away beneath the kindly clay,Set a square stone above my dreamless head,And sign me with the cross and signing say:“Here lieth one who loved the steadfast thingsOf his own land, its gladness and its grace,The stubbled fields, the linnets’ gleaming wings,The long, low gables of his native place,Its gravelled paths, and the strong wind that rendsThe boughs about the house, the hearth’s red glow,The surly, slow good-fellowship of friends,The humour of the men he used to know,And all their swinging choruses and mirth”—Then turn aside and leave my dust in earth.
WHENmy last song is sung and I am deadAnd laid away beneath the kindly clay,Set a square stone above my dreamless head,And sign me with the cross and signing say:“Here lieth one who loved the steadfast thingsOf his own land, its gladness and its grace,The stubbled fields, the linnets’ gleaming wings,The long, low gables of his native place,Its gravelled paths, and the strong wind that rendsThe boughs about the house, the hearth’s red glow,The surly, slow good-fellowship of friends,The humour of the men he used to know,And all their swinging choruses and mirth”—Then turn aside and leave my dust in earth.
WHENmy last song is sung and I am deadAnd laid away beneath the kindly clay,Set a square stone above my dreamless head,And sign me with the cross and signing say:“Here lieth one who loved the steadfast thingsOf his own land, its gladness and its grace,The stubbled fields, the linnets’ gleaming wings,The long, low gables of his native place,Its gravelled paths, and the strong wind that rendsThe boughs about the house, the hearth’s red glow,The surly, slow good-fellowship of friends,The humour of the men he used to know,And all their swinging choruses and mirth”—Then turn aside and leave my dust in earth.
MYfriends, I may no longer ride with youTo bear a sword in your brave company,Or follow our poor tattered flag which knewNo shame or slur—or any victory.But this at least, with courage and with mirthWe starveling poets and enthusiastsHave shirked no battle for the stricken earthAgainst its tyrants’ spears and arbalests.And though I go to guard another sign,These things, please God, shall stand and never slip—(O friends of mine, O splendid friends of mine!)Honour and Freedom and Goodfellowship,On which and on your ragged chivalryI always think with proud humility.
MYfriends, I may no longer ride with youTo bear a sword in your brave company,Or follow our poor tattered flag which knewNo shame or slur—or any victory.But this at least, with courage and with mirthWe starveling poets and enthusiastsHave shirked no battle for the stricken earthAgainst its tyrants’ spears and arbalests.And though I go to guard another sign,These things, please God, shall stand and never slip—(O friends of mine, O splendid friends of mine!)Honour and Freedom and Goodfellowship,On which and on your ragged chivalryI always think with proud humility.
MYfriends, I may no longer ride with youTo bear a sword in your brave company,Or follow our poor tattered flag which knewNo shame or slur—or any victory.
But this at least, with courage and with mirthWe starveling poets and enthusiastsHave shirked no battle for the stricken earthAgainst its tyrants’ spears and arbalests.
And though I go to guard another sign,These things, please God, shall stand and never slip—(O friends of mine, O splendid friends of mine!)Honour and Freedom and Goodfellowship,On which and on your ragged chivalryI always think with proud humility.
THOUGHworlds all melt away in mist,The Heavens’ slender filament,The orange and the amethyst,Are left me—and I am content!I stand serene amid the shocks,Upheavals, cataclysmic dust,The binding fires, the falling rocks,The withering of life and lust.This little burnished lamp I holdHas shattered the eternities;The glamour of all unknown gold,The ancient puissance of the seas,The sunlight and the love of GodAre Cast in chains beneath my feet—For at my first behest this sodBecomes a cosmos, new, complete,Instinct with unimagined power,In colour radiant pole to pole,The sudden glory of an hour,The epic moment of my soul!
THOUGHworlds all melt away in mist,The Heavens’ slender filament,The orange and the amethyst,Are left me—and I am content!I stand serene amid the shocks,Upheavals, cataclysmic dust,The binding fires, the falling rocks,The withering of life and lust.This little burnished lamp I holdHas shattered the eternities;The glamour of all unknown gold,The ancient puissance of the seas,The sunlight and the love of GodAre Cast in chains beneath my feet—For at my first behest this sodBecomes a cosmos, new, complete,Instinct with unimagined power,In colour radiant pole to pole,The sudden glory of an hour,The epic moment of my soul!
THOUGHworlds all melt away in mist,The Heavens’ slender filament,The orange and the amethyst,Are left me—and I am content!
I stand serene amid the shocks,Upheavals, cataclysmic dust,The binding fires, the falling rocks,The withering of life and lust.
This little burnished lamp I holdHas shattered the eternities;The glamour of all unknown gold,The ancient puissance of the seas,
The sunlight and the love of GodAre Cast in chains beneath my feet—For at my first behest this sodBecomes a cosmos, new, complete,
Instinct with unimagined power,In colour radiant pole to pole,The sudden glory of an hour,The epic moment of my soul!
ISAWa red sky boding woe,The gleam of an eternal sword,And heard the voice that bid me goFrom the green garden of the Lord.I knew the prick of Destiny,The scorn of the relentless stars;The very grass looked down on me—The first of all the Avatars!Each flower seemed to see my shame;Each bird as though insulted flewBefore my hateful face—my nameWas blown about the whole world through!Even my house with its red roof,Dear as it is, looks strange and odd;My garden beds are more aloofFrom me than is my angry God!
ISAWa red sky boding woe,The gleam of an eternal sword,And heard the voice that bid me goFrom the green garden of the Lord.I knew the prick of Destiny,The scorn of the relentless stars;The very grass looked down on me—The first of all the Avatars!Each flower seemed to see my shame;Each bird as though insulted flewBefore my hateful face—my nameWas blown about the whole world through!Even my house with its red roof,Dear as it is, looks strange and odd;My garden beds are more aloofFrom me than is my angry God!
ISAWa red sky boding woe,The gleam of an eternal sword,And heard the voice that bid me goFrom the green garden of the Lord.
I knew the prick of Destiny,The scorn of the relentless stars;The very grass looked down on me—The first of all the Avatars!
Each flower seemed to see my shame;Each bird as though insulted flewBefore my hateful face—my nameWas blown about the whole world through!
Even my house with its red roof,Dear as it is, looks strange and odd;My garden beds are more aloofFrom me than is my angry God!
ILOVEeach inch of English earth;I love each stone upon the way—Whether in Winter’s sullen dearth,When the soil is trodden into clay—In Autumn ripeness, or the mirthOf a Summer’s day.Something peculiar to our landIs hid in even the greyest sky,When stiff and stark the tall trees standAnd the wind is high.But this one season of our yearIs so peculiarly an English thing,When the woolly catkins first appear,And yellow burgeoningUpon the little coppice here—This native SpringWhich comes to us so suddenly,Blown over the hills from the fruitful South;Full of the laughter of the laughing seaShe comes with singing mouth.The cool, sweet Wiltshire meadows lieWith buttercups from end to end;In secret woods are small blooms, shyBluebells the good gods send.There is no cloud that wanders byBut is my friend.And now the gorse is gold again;The violet hides beneath the leaves;And quickened by thin April rainThe debonair young sapling weavesHis coat of lightest green; againBirds chirp at the eaves.Each hidden brook and waterfall,Each tiny daisy in the sunCalls to my heart—the hedgerows allSo full of twigs, they call, each one;And with insistent voices callThe roads where the wild flowers run.O set with grass and the English hedgeAre the long, white roads which wind and wind—Roads which reach to the world’s edge,Where the world is left behind.
ILOVEeach inch of English earth;I love each stone upon the way—Whether in Winter’s sullen dearth,When the soil is trodden into clay—In Autumn ripeness, or the mirthOf a Summer’s day.Something peculiar to our landIs hid in even the greyest sky,When stiff and stark the tall trees standAnd the wind is high.But this one season of our yearIs so peculiarly an English thing,When the woolly catkins first appear,And yellow burgeoningUpon the little coppice here—This native SpringWhich comes to us so suddenly,Blown over the hills from the fruitful South;Full of the laughter of the laughing seaShe comes with singing mouth.The cool, sweet Wiltshire meadows lieWith buttercups from end to end;In secret woods are small blooms, shyBluebells the good gods send.There is no cloud that wanders byBut is my friend.And now the gorse is gold again;The violet hides beneath the leaves;And quickened by thin April rainThe debonair young sapling weavesHis coat of lightest green; againBirds chirp at the eaves.Each hidden brook and waterfall,Each tiny daisy in the sunCalls to my heart—the hedgerows allSo full of twigs, they call, each one;And with insistent voices callThe roads where the wild flowers run.O set with grass and the English hedgeAre the long, white roads which wind and wind—Roads which reach to the world’s edge,Where the world is left behind.
ILOVEeach inch of English earth;I love each stone upon the way—Whether in Winter’s sullen dearth,When the soil is trodden into clay—In Autumn ripeness, or the mirthOf a Summer’s day.
Something peculiar to our landIs hid in even the greyest sky,When stiff and stark the tall trees standAnd the wind is high.
But this one season of our yearIs so peculiarly an English thing,When the woolly catkins first appear,And yellow burgeoningUpon the little coppice here—This native Spring
Which comes to us so suddenly,Blown over the hills from the fruitful South;Full of the laughter of the laughing seaShe comes with singing mouth.
The cool, sweet Wiltshire meadows lieWith buttercups from end to end;In secret woods are small blooms, shyBluebells the good gods send.There is no cloud that wanders byBut is my friend.
And now the gorse is gold again;The violet hides beneath the leaves;And quickened by thin April rainThe debonair young sapling weavesHis coat of lightest green; againBirds chirp at the eaves.
Each hidden brook and waterfall,Each tiny daisy in the sunCalls to my heart—the hedgerows allSo full of twigs, they call, each one;And with insistent voices callThe roads where the wild flowers run.
O set with grass and the English hedgeAre the long, white roads which wind and wind—Roads which reach to the world’s edge,Where the world is left behind.
AGAINthe royalties are shed,Disdiademed the kingly head,He lies again—ah, very small!—Among the cattle in the stall,Or in His slender mother’s armsIs snuggled up from baby harms.The Tower of Ivory leans downFrom Paradise’s topmost crown;The House of Gold on earth takes root;From Jesse comes a saving shoot,For Mary gives (O manifoldHer courtesies!) that we may holdOur little Lord’s poor fragile handsAnd feet, the guerdon of all lands.No fool need fail to enter inThe guarded Heaven we strive to win,Or miss upon a casual streetThe fiery impress of His feet,But touch with every stone and sodThe extended fingers of our God,And see in twigs of the stiff hedgerows,Or in the woods where quiet growsAmong the naked Winter trees,A thousand times these mysteries:The branching arms with Christly fruit,The thorns which bruise His head and foot.No more with silver shrilly blownHe treads a conqueror, but, flownWith swift and silent whitening wings,He comes enwrapped in baby things.Our God adventures everywhereBeneath the cool and Christmas air,And setteth still His candid starWhere Mary and her baby are!
AGAINthe royalties are shed,Disdiademed the kingly head,He lies again—ah, very small!—Among the cattle in the stall,Or in His slender mother’s armsIs snuggled up from baby harms.The Tower of Ivory leans downFrom Paradise’s topmost crown;The House of Gold on earth takes root;From Jesse comes a saving shoot,For Mary gives (O manifoldHer courtesies!) that we may holdOur little Lord’s poor fragile handsAnd feet, the guerdon of all lands.No fool need fail to enter inThe guarded Heaven we strive to win,Or miss upon a casual streetThe fiery impress of His feet,But touch with every stone and sodThe extended fingers of our God,And see in twigs of the stiff hedgerows,Or in the woods where quiet growsAmong the naked Winter trees,A thousand times these mysteries:The branching arms with Christly fruit,The thorns which bruise His head and foot.No more with silver shrilly blownHe treads a conqueror, but, flownWith swift and silent whitening wings,He comes enwrapped in baby things.Our God adventures everywhereBeneath the cool and Christmas air,And setteth still His candid starWhere Mary and her baby are!
AGAINthe royalties are shed,Disdiademed the kingly head,He lies again—ah, very small!—Among the cattle in the stall,Or in His slender mother’s armsIs snuggled up from baby harms.
The Tower of Ivory leans downFrom Paradise’s topmost crown;The House of Gold on earth takes root;From Jesse comes a saving shoot,For Mary gives (O manifoldHer courtesies!) that we may holdOur little Lord’s poor fragile handsAnd feet, the guerdon of all lands.
No fool need fail to enter inThe guarded Heaven we strive to win,Or miss upon a casual streetThe fiery impress of His feet,But touch with every stone and sodThe extended fingers of our God,And see in twigs of the stiff hedgerows,Or in the woods where quiet growsAmong the naked Winter trees,A thousand times these mysteries:The branching arms with Christly fruit,The thorns which bruise His head and foot.
No more with silver shrilly blownHe treads a conqueror, but, flownWith swift and silent whitening wings,He comes enwrapped in baby things.Our God adventures everywhereBeneath the cool and Christmas air,And setteth still His candid starWhere Mary and her baby are!
WHENall my long and weary work is done(Toiling both soon and late, by candle-light,Sewing and sewing while my eyes can see)I lay my glasses by and watch the walls—The plaster off in patches, stained with smoke—Melt as a hoary mist and flee away.Then through the splendour of the evening skies,Along its star-lit paths, past pearl-white cloudsI hasten till I reach the region whereGod’s holy city like a virgin keepsIts spotless tryst, forever night and day.I do not linger here, but take my wayTo Him who sits among the Seraphim;And He who knows I am a poor old wife,With naught of wit or wealth that I can bring,And that my hands are hardened by my toil—Sees that ’tis I that need Him most of all.Yea, God will have the music hushed (for IAm growing somewhat deaf) and we will talkOf many things, as friend may talk with friend.Ah, I have looked, and in the dear Lord’s face(More lined with care than any earthly man’s)Seen that He suffers too, and understandsHow hard and late I work to keep the wolfOutside my door, and bring my children upTo serve Him always, and to keep them cleanIn body, heart and mind....At the sun’s call,Working with all my strength from early dawn,Through the long day, and then by candle-lightSewing on buttons while my eyes can see,I know the glory of God’s gracious face,And at His touch my weary hands grow strong,Hearing His voice my heart is glad and gay.
WHENall my long and weary work is done(Toiling both soon and late, by candle-light,Sewing and sewing while my eyes can see)I lay my glasses by and watch the walls—The plaster off in patches, stained with smoke—Melt as a hoary mist and flee away.Then through the splendour of the evening skies,Along its star-lit paths, past pearl-white cloudsI hasten till I reach the region whereGod’s holy city like a virgin keepsIts spotless tryst, forever night and day.I do not linger here, but take my wayTo Him who sits among the Seraphim;And He who knows I am a poor old wife,With naught of wit or wealth that I can bring,And that my hands are hardened by my toil—Sees that ’tis I that need Him most of all.Yea, God will have the music hushed (for IAm growing somewhat deaf) and we will talkOf many things, as friend may talk with friend.Ah, I have looked, and in the dear Lord’s face(More lined with care than any earthly man’s)Seen that He suffers too, and understandsHow hard and late I work to keep the wolfOutside my door, and bring my children upTo serve Him always, and to keep them cleanIn body, heart and mind....At the sun’s call,Working with all my strength from early dawn,Through the long day, and then by candle-lightSewing on buttons while my eyes can see,I know the glory of God’s gracious face,And at His touch my weary hands grow strong,Hearing His voice my heart is glad and gay.
WHENall my long and weary work is done(Toiling both soon and late, by candle-light,Sewing and sewing while my eyes can see)I lay my glasses by and watch the walls—The plaster off in patches, stained with smoke—Melt as a hoary mist and flee away.Then through the splendour of the evening skies,Along its star-lit paths, past pearl-white cloudsI hasten till I reach the region whereGod’s holy city like a virgin keepsIts spotless tryst, forever night and day.I do not linger here, but take my wayTo Him who sits among the Seraphim;And He who knows I am a poor old wife,With naught of wit or wealth that I can bring,And that my hands are hardened by my toil—Sees that ’tis I that need Him most of all.Yea, God will have the music hushed (for IAm growing somewhat deaf) and we will talkOf many things, as friend may talk with friend.
Ah, I have looked, and in the dear Lord’s face(More lined with care than any earthly man’s)Seen that He suffers too, and understandsHow hard and late I work to keep the wolfOutside my door, and bring my children upTo serve Him always, and to keep them cleanIn body, heart and mind....
At the sun’s call,Working with all my strength from early dawn,Through the long day, and then by candle-lightSewing on buttons while my eyes can see,I know the glory of God’s gracious face,And at His touch my weary hands grow strong,Hearing His voice my heart is glad and gay.
BEFOREthe choirs of angels burst to song,In night and loneliness your way you trod—O valiant heart, O weary feet and strong,There are no easy by-paths unto God.Darkness there was, thick darkness all around;Nor spoken word, nor hand to touch you knew,But One who walked the self-same stony groundAnd shared your dereliction there with you.O valiant heart! O fixed, undaunted will!While all the heavens hung like brass above,You faltered not, but steadfast journeyed stillUpon the road of sainthood to your Love.And was not it reward exceeding greatTo kiss at last with passionate lips His side,His hands, His feet? O pomp! O regal state!O crown of life He gives unto His bride!Lovers there are with roses chapleted,But more than theirs is your Lord’s loveliness;Your Love is crowned with thorns upon His head,And pain and sorrow woven is His dress.
BEFOREthe choirs of angels burst to song,In night and loneliness your way you trod—O valiant heart, O weary feet and strong,There are no easy by-paths unto God.Darkness there was, thick darkness all around;Nor spoken word, nor hand to touch you knew,But One who walked the self-same stony groundAnd shared your dereliction there with you.O valiant heart! O fixed, undaunted will!While all the heavens hung like brass above,You faltered not, but steadfast journeyed stillUpon the road of sainthood to your Love.And was not it reward exceeding greatTo kiss at last with passionate lips His side,His hands, His feet? O pomp! O regal state!O crown of life He gives unto His bride!Lovers there are with roses chapleted,But more than theirs is your Lord’s loveliness;Your Love is crowned with thorns upon His head,And pain and sorrow woven is His dress.
BEFOREthe choirs of angels burst to song,In night and loneliness your way you trod—O valiant heart, O weary feet and strong,There are no easy by-paths unto God.
Darkness there was, thick darkness all around;Nor spoken word, nor hand to touch you knew,But One who walked the self-same stony groundAnd shared your dereliction there with you.
O valiant heart! O fixed, undaunted will!While all the heavens hung like brass above,You faltered not, but steadfast journeyed stillUpon the road of sainthood to your Love.
And was not it reward exceeding greatTo kiss at last with passionate lips His side,His hands, His feet? O pomp! O regal state!O crown of life He gives unto His bride!
Lovers there are with roses chapleted,But more than theirs is your Lord’s loveliness;Your Love is crowned with thorns upon His head,And pain and sorrow woven is His dress.
ASsome priest turns, his ritual all done,And stretching hands above the kneeling crowd,Who rapt and silent, wait with heads all bowedFor the last holy words of benison—“Now God be with thee, ever Three in One”—So turns the sun, though all reluctantly.One thrilling moment comes to shrub and tree;Expectant stillness falls; then dark and dunThe silhouettes of sphinx and pyramidGaze at the last deep amber after-glow;The little stars peep down between the palms;And all the ghosts that garish daylight hidAre quickened—Isis with the breasts of snowAnd Antony with Egypt in his arms.
ASsome priest turns, his ritual all done,And stretching hands above the kneeling crowd,Who rapt and silent, wait with heads all bowedFor the last holy words of benison—“Now God be with thee, ever Three in One”—So turns the sun, though all reluctantly.One thrilling moment comes to shrub and tree;Expectant stillness falls; then dark and dunThe silhouettes of sphinx and pyramidGaze at the last deep amber after-glow;The little stars peep down between the palms;And all the ghosts that garish daylight hidAre quickened—Isis with the breasts of snowAnd Antony with Egypt in his arms.
ASsome priest turns, his ritual all done,And stretching hands above the kneeling crowd,Who rapt and silent, wait with heads all bowedFor the last holy words of benison—“Now God be with thee, ever Three in One”—So turns the sun, though all reluctantly.One thrilling moment comes to shrub and tree;Expectant stillness falls; then dark and dun
The silhouettes of sphinx and pyramidGaze at the last deep amber after-glow;The little stars peep down between the palms;And all the ghosts that garish daylight hidAre quickened—Isis with the breasts of snowAnd Antony with Egypt in his arms.
SHALLI not wear my motleyAnd flaunt my bladder of greenBefore the earls and the bishopsAnd the laughing king and queen;Though hunger is in my bellyAnd jests my lips between?Men listen a moment idlyTo the foolishness I sing—But my words are sharp and bitterIn savour and in sting,And harder than mail in battleWhere the heavy maces swing.For full of the sap of follyGrow the branches of the Creed,The fine adventurous follyGod gave us in our need,When He yielded up to scornful deathThe human brows that bleed.They nailed the son of MaryOn a gibbet straight and tall;But the eagles of the RomanWere struck in Cæsar’s hall,And the veil of the Holy of HoliesWas rent in the temple wall.Wiser than sage or prophet,Or the pedant of the school,Than lord or abbot or priest or princeWho over the nations rule,Are the cap and bells and the motleyAnd the laughter of the fool!
SHALLI not wear my motleyAnd flaunt my bladder of greenBefore the earls and the bishopsAnd the laughing king and queen;Though hunger is in my bellyAnd jests my lips between?Men listen a moment idlyTo the foolishness I sing—But my words are sharp and bitterIn savour and in sting,And harder than mail in battleWhere the heavy maces swing.For full of the sap of follyGrow the branches of the Creed,The fine adventurous follyGod gave us in our need,When He yielded up to scornful deathThe human brows that bleed.They nailed the son of MaryOn a gibbet straight and tall;But the eagles of the RomanWere struck in Cæsar’s hall,And the veil of the Holy of HoliesWas rent in the temple wall.Wiser than sage or prophet,Or the pedant of the school,Than lord or abbot or priest or princeWho over the nations rule,Are the cap and bells and the motleyAnd the laughter of the fool!
SHALLI not wear my motleyAnd flaunt my bladder of greenBefore the earls and the bishopsAnd the laughing king and queen;Though hunger is in my bellyAnd jests my lips between?
Men listen a moment idlyTo the foolishness I sing—But my words are sharp and bitterIn savour and in sting,And harder than mail in battleWhere the heavy maces swing.
For full of the sap of follyGrow the branches of the Creed,The fine adventurous follyGod gave us in our need,When He yielded up to scornful deathThe human brows that bleed.
They nailed the son of MaryOn a gibbet straight and tall;But the eagles of the RomanWere struck in Cæsar’s hall,And the veil of the Holy of HoliesWas rent in the temple wall.
Wiser than sage or prophet,Or the pedant of the school,Than lord or abbot or priest or princeWho over the nations rule,Are the cap and bells and the motleyAnd the laughter of the fool!
February 12th, 1918.