TREADsoftly; we are on enchanted ground:One touch and every hidden thing lies bare,The deep sea sundered, suddenly unboundThe awful thunders instinct in the air!Oh, these we know; but what if we should breakA secret spell as easily as glass,And stumble on their sleeping wrath and wakeThe armies and the million blades of grass?And find more dread than whirlwinds round our head,The sweep of sparrows’ fierce, avenging wings,The anger of wild roses burning red,The terrible hate of earth’s most helpless things?
TREADsoftly; we are on enchanted ground:One touch and every hidden thing lies bare,The deep sea sundered, suddenly unboundThe awful thunders instinct in the air!Oh, these we know; but what if we should breakA secret spell as easily as glass,And stumble on their sleeping wrath and wakeThe armies and the million blades of grass?And find more dread than whirlwinds round our head,The sweep of sparrows’ fierce, avenging wings,The anger of wild roses burning red,The terrible hate of earth’s most helpless things?
TREADsoftly; we are on enchanted ground:One touch and every hidden thing lies bare,The deep sea sundered, suddenly unboundThe awful thunders instinct in the air!
Oh, these we know; but what if we should breakA secret spell as easily as glass,And stumble on their sleeping wrath and wakeThe armies and the million blades of grass?
And find more dread than whirlwinds round our head,The sweep of sparrows’ fierce, avenging wings,The anger of wild roses burning red,The terrible hate of earth’s most helpless things?
WHOthink of Charity as milky-eyedKnow not of God’s great handmaid’s terrible name,Who comes in garments by the rainbow dyed,And crowned and winged and charioted with flame.For Truth and Justice ride abroad with her,And Honour’s trumpets peal before her face:The high archangels stand and ministerWhen she doth sit within her holy place.None knoweth in the depth nor in the heightWhat meaneth Charity, God’s secret word,But kiss her feet, and veil their burning sightBefore her naked heart, her naked sword.
WHOthink of Charity as milky-eyedKnow not of God’s great handmaid’s terrible name,Who comes in garments by the rainbow dyed,And crowned and winged and charioted with flame.For Truth and Justice ride abroad with her,And Honour’s trumpets peal before her face:The high archangels stand and ministerWhen she doth sit within her holy place.None knoweth in the depth nor in the heightWhat meaneth Charity, God’s secret word,But kiss her feet, and veil their burning sightBefore her naked heart, her naked sword.
WHOthink of Charity as milky-eyedKnow not of God’s great handmaid’s terrible name,Who comes in garments by the rainbow dyed,And crowned and winged and charioted with flame.
For Truth and Justice ride abroad with her,And Honour’s trumpets peal before her face:The high archangels stand and ministerWhen she doth sit within her holy place.
None knoweth in the depth nor in the heightWhat meaneth Charity, God’s secret word,But kiss her feet, and veil their burning sightBefore her naked heart, her naked sword.
THIShour God’s darkest mysteriesAre plainer than the screeds of men,Tangled and false philosophiesFashioned by lying tongue and pen.Plain as those bastions of cloud,Kind as the wide and kindly skies,And in the wild winds shouting loudThe truths concealed from pedants’ eyes.Pages which he may read who runs,Where no unlettered man may fail,Candid as are his noonday sunsFamiliar as his cheese and ale.Him, Whom our eyes may see, our earsHear, Whom our groping hands may touch—Him we shall find ere many years,And finding fear not overmuch.Who gave me simple things to keep,—Laughter and love and memories,A farm, and meadows full of sheep,And quiet gardens full of bees,And those five gateways of the soul,Through which all good may come to me,Saints glorious of aureole,The flying thunders of the sea,And feasts, and gracious hands of friends,And flowers good to stroke and smell;Oh, in the secret woods He sendsThe birds their trembling joys to tell!He, too, is every day afreshHid and revealed in bread and wine,—The awful Word of God made flesh,Mortal commingling with divine!Shadows and evil dreams o’erthrownWith Dagon and the gods of scorn,Since Peace was in the silence blownOn that dear night when God was born.
THIShour God’s darkest mysteriesAre plainer than the screeds of men,Tangled and false philosophiesFashioned by lying tongue and pen.Plain as those bastions of cloud,Kind as the wide and kindly skies,And in the wild winds shouting loudThe truths concealed from pedants’ eyes.Pages which he may read who runs,Where no unlettered man may fail,Candid as are his noonday sunsFamiliar as his cheese and ale.Him, Whom our eyes may see, our earsHear, Whom our groping hands may touch—Him we shall find ere many years,And finding fear not overmuch.Who gave me simple things to keep,—Laughter and love and memories,A farm, and meadows full of sheep,And quiet gardens full of bees,And those five gateways of the soul,Through which all good may come to me,Saints glorious of aureole,The flying thunders of the sea,And feasts, and gracious hands of friends,And flowers good to stroke and smell;Oh, in the secret woods He sendsThe birds their trembling joys to tell!He, too, is every day afreshHid and revealed in bread and wine,—The awful Word of God made flesh,Mortal commingling with divine!Shadows and evil dreams o’erthrownWith Dagon and the gods of scorn,Since Peace was in the silence blownOn that dear night when God was born.
THIShour God’s darkest mysteriesAre plainer than the screeds of men,Tangled and false philosophiesFashioned by lying tongue and pen.
Plain as those bastions of cloud,Kind as the wide and kindly skies,And in the wild winds shouting loudThe truths concealed from pedants’ eyes.
Pages which he may read who runs,Where no unlettered man may fail,Candid as are his noonday sunsFamiliar as his cheese and ale.
Him, Whom our eyes may see, our earsHear, Whom our groping hands may touch—Him we shall find ere many years,And finding fear not overmuch.
Who gave me simple things to keep,—Laughter and love and memories,A farm, and meadows full of sheep,And quiet gardens full of bees,And those five gateways of the soul,Through which all good may come to me,Saints glorious of aureole,The flying thunders of the sea,
And feasts, and gracious hands of friends,And flowers good to stroke and smell;Oh, in the secret woods He sendsThe birds their trembling joys to tell!
He, too, is every day afreshHid and revealed in bread and wine,—The awful Word of God made flesh,Mortal commingling with divine!
Shadows and evil dreams o’erthrownWith Dagon and the gods of scorn,Since Peace was in the silence blownOn that dear night when God was born.
LAYquietly Thy kingly headO mighty weakness from on high;God rest Thee in Thy manger-bed—Sing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—O Splendour hid from every eye!—La-lullo-lullo-lullaby!“Ye mild and humble cattle, yieldRoom for my little son to lie;Your God and mine is here revealed—Sing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—Naked beneath a naked sky—La-lullo-lullo-lullaby!“Deal kindly with Him, moon and sun;No bird to Him a song deny;Ye winds and showers every oneSing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—For men shall cast Him out to die ...La-lullo-lullo-lullaby!”
LAYquietly Thy kingly headO mighty weakness from on high;God rest Thee in Thy manger-bed—Sing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—O Splendour hid from every eye!—La-lullo-lullo-lullaby!“Ye mild and humble cattle, yieldRoom for my little son to lie;Your God and mine is here revealed—Sing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—Naked beneath a naked sky—La-lullo-lullo-lullaby!“Deal kindly with Him, moon and sun;No bird to Him a song deny;Ye winds and showers every oneSing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—For men shall cast Him out to die ...La-lullo-lullo-lullaby!”
LAYquietly Thy kingly headO mighty weakness from on high;God rest Thee in Thy manger-bed—Sing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—O Splendour hid from every eye!—La-lullo-lullo-lullaby!
“Ye mild and humble cattle, yieldRoom for my little son to lie;Your God and mine is here revealed—Sing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—Naked beneath a naked sky—La-lullo-lullo-lullaby!
“Deal kindly with Him, moon and sun;No bird to Him a song deny;Ye winds and showers every oneSing Lullo-lullo-lullaby—For men shall cast Him out to die ...La-lullo-lullo-lullaby!”
THEREis a plot where all the winds are still,A hidden garden where no voice is heard,Only a splashing fountain and the shrillSweet clamour of a bird.The poplars guard like tall, grave sentinelsIts peace inviolate; and in the towerWith careful ritual ring out the bellsThe end of each dead hour.Laburnums, hollyhocks and roses runBy secret paths—but who shall burst the bars?Oh, who shall see—except the curious sunAnd all the peering stars?...And Thou and Thou, my Love, for whom I keepMy heart a watered garden, all Thine own,Where flowers my guardian angel tends in sleep,Bright summer blooms, are grown!Come, my Belovèd, come—behold, the skiesAre fragrant with the evening scents and dew:My soul hath sickened for Thy lips and eyes,And laden is with rue!Oh, Thou shalt fly with soft wings like a dove’sAnd hold me fast beyond all fate and fear,And we ’mid flowers shall tell our flowering lovesWhere no one else can hear!
THEREis a plot where all the winds are still,A hidden garden where no voice is heard,Only a splashing fountain and the shrillSweet clamour of a bird.The poplars guard like tall, grave sentinelsIts peace inviolate; and in the towerWith careful ritual ring out the bellsThe end of each dead hour.Laburnums, hollyhocks and roses runBy secret paths—but who shall burst the bars?Oh, who shall see—except the curious sunAnd all the peering stars?...And Thou and Thou, my Love, for whom I keepMy heart a watered garden, all Thine own,Where flowers my guardian angel tends in sleep,Bright summer blooms, are grown!Come, my Belovèd, come—behold, the skiesAre fragrant with the evening scents and dew:My soul hath sickened for Thy lips and eyes,And laden is with rue!Oh, Thou shalt fly with soft wings like a dove’sAnd hold me fast beyond all fate and fear,And we ’mid flowers shall tell our flowering lovesWhere no one else can hear!
THEREis a plot where all the winds are still,A hidden garden where no voice is heard,Only a splashing fountain and the shrillSweet clamour of a bird.
The poplars guard like tall, grave sentinelsIts peace inviolate; and in the towerWith careful ritual ring out the bellsThe end of each dead hour.
Laburnums, hollyhocks and roses runBy secret paths—but who shall burst the bars?Oh, who shall see—except the curious sunAnd all the peering stars?...
And Thou and Thou, my Love, for whom I keepMy heart a watered garden, all Thine own,Where flowers my guardian angel tends in sleep,Bright summer blooms, are grown!
Come, my Belovèd, come—behold, the skiesAre fragrant with the evening scents and dew:My soul hath sickened for Thy lips and eyes,And laden is with rue!
Oh, Thou shalt fly with soft wings like a dove’sAnd hold me fast beyond all fate and fear,And we ’mid flowers shall tell our flowering lovesWhere no one else can hear!
ANhour ago I saw Thee ride in goldAlong the burning highways of the skies;And now—Thou comest with soft and suppliant eyes,And fearing lest Thy love seem overbold.In this dear garden set with flower and tree,My soul, a maiden whom a great king woos,Stands thrilled and silent—Lord, what can she choose,Dumbfounded by Thy strange humility?Since Thou wilt have it so, my Lord, I bareIn love and shamefastness my soul—Thy soul—So lay Thy tender hand, an aureole,Upon my beating heart, my chrismed hair.
ANhour ago I saw Thee ride in goldAlong the burning highways of the skies;And now—Thou comest with soft and suppliant eyes,And fearing lest Thy love seem overbold.In this dear garden set with flower and tree,My soul, a maiden whom a great king woos,Stands thrilled and silent—Lord, what can she choose,Dumbfounded by Thy strange humility?Since Thou wilt have it so, my Lord, I bareIn love and shamefastness my soul—Thy soul—So lay Thy tender hand, an aureole,Upon my beating heart, my chrismed hair.
ANhour ago I saw Thee ride in goldAlong the burning highways of the skies;And now—Thou comest with soft and suppliant eyes,And fearing lest Thy love seem overbold.
In this dear garden set with flower and tree,My soul, a maiden whom a great king woos,Stands thrilled and silent—Lord, what can she choose,Dumbfounded by Thy strange humility?
Since Thou wilt have it so, my Lord, I bareIn love and shamefastness my soul—Thy soul—So lay Thy tender hand, an aureole,Upon my beating heart, my chrismed hair.