LAUGHTER

THEbending sails shall whiten on the sea,Guided by hands and eyes made glad for home,With graven gems and cedar and ebonyFrom Babylon and Rome.For here a lover cometh as to his bride,And there a merchant to his utmost price—Oh, hearts will leap to see the good ships rideSafely to Paradise!And this that cuts the waves with brazen prowHath heard the blizzard groaning through her spars;Battered with honour swings she nobly nowBack from her bitter wars.And that doth bring her silver work and spice,Peacocks and apes from Tarshish, and from TyreGreat cloaks of velvet stiff with gold device,Coloured with sunset fire....And one, serenely through the golden gate,Shall sail and anchor by the ultimate shore,Who, plundered of her gold by pirate Fate,Still keeps her richer storeUnrifled when her perilous journey endsAnd the strong cable holds her safe again:Laughter and memories and the songs of friendsAnd the sword edge of pain.

THEbending sails shall whiten on the sea,Guided by hands and eyes made glad for home,With graven gems and cedar and ebonyFrom Babylon and Rome.

For here a lover cometh as to his bride,And there a merchant to his utmost price—Oh, hearts will leap to see the good ships rideSafely to Paradise!

And this that cuts the waves with brazen prowHath heard the blizzard groaning through her spars;Battered with honour swings she nobly nowBack from her bitter wars.

And that doth bring her silver work and spice,Peacocks and apes from Tarshish, and from TyreGreat cloaks of velvet stiff with gold device,Coloured with sunset fire....

And one, serenely through the golden gate,Shall sail and anchor by the ultimate shore,Who, plundered of her gold by pirate Fate,Still keeps her richer store

Unrifled when her perilous journey endsAnd the strong cable holds her safe again:Laughter and memories and the songs of friendsAnd the sword edge of pain.

June 1917.

OH, not a poet lives but knowsThe laughing beauty of the rose,The heyday humour of the noon,The solemn smiling of the moon,—When night, as happy as a lover,Doth kiss and kiss the earth, and coverHis face with all her tender hair.Sweet bride and bridegroom everywhere,And mothers, who so softly singUpon their babies’ slumbering,Know joy upon their lips, and laughterAt Joy’s heels that comes tumbling after.But who shall shake his sides to hearThat sacred laughter, fraught with fear,That laughter strange and mystical—The hero laughing in his fall;Whene’er a man goes out alone,Is thrown and is not overthrown?The fates shall never bow the headThat irony hath comforted,Nor thrust him down with shameful scarsWho towers above the reeling stars.Thus God, Who shaketh roof and rafterOf highest heaven with holy laughter;Who made fantastic, foolish treesShadow the floors of tropic seas,Where finny gargoyles, goggle-eyed,Grin monstrously beneath the tide;Who made for some titanic jokeOut of the acorn grow the oak;From buried seed and riven rocks,Brings death and life—a paradox!Who breaks great Kingdoms, and their Kings,Upon the knees of helpless things....So flesh the Word was made Who gaveHis body to a human grave,While devils gnashed their teeth at lossTo see Him triumph on the cross....Thus God, Who shaketh roof and rafterOf highest heaven with holy laughter!

Sweet bride and bridegroom everywhere,And mothers, who so softly singUpon their babies’ slumbering,Know joy upon their lips, and laughterAt Joy’s heels that comes tumbling after.

But who shall shake his sides to hearThat sacred laughter, fraught with fear,That laughter strange and mystical—The hero laughing in his fall;Whene’er a man goes out alone,Is thrown and is not overthrown?

The fates shall never bow the headThat irony hath comforted,Nor thrust him down with shameful scarsWho towers above the reeling stars.

Thus God, Who shaketh roof and rafterOf highest heaven with holy laughter;Who made fantastic, foolish treesShadow the floors of tropic seas,Where finny gargoyles, goggle-eyed,Grin monstrously beneath the tide;Who made for some titanic jokeOut of the acorn grow the oak;From buried seed and riven rocks,Brings death and life—a paradox!Who breaks great Kingdoms, and their Kings,Upon the knees of helpless things....So flesh the Word was made Who gaveHis body to a human grave,While devils gnashed their teeth at lossTo see Him triumph on the cross....

Thus God, Who shaketh roof and rafterOf highest heaven with holy laughter!

October 14th, 1917.

THOUGHGod has put me in the world to praiseEach beetle’s burnished wing, each blade of grass,To track the manifold and marvellous waysWhereon His bright creative footsteps pass;To glory in the poplars’ summer green,To guard the sunset’s glittering hoard of gold,To gladden when the fallen leaves careenOn fairy keels upon the windy wold.For this, for this, my eager mornings broke,For this came sunshine and the lonely rain,For this the stiff and sleepy woods awokeAnd every hawthorn hedge along the lane.For this God gave me all my joy of verseThat I might shout beneath exultant skies,And meet, as one delivered from a curse,The pardon and the pity in your eyes.

THOUGHGod has put me in the world to praiseEach beetle’s burnished wing, each blade of grass,To track the manifold and marvellous waysWhereon His bright creative footsteps pass;

To glory in the poplars’ summer green,To guard the sunset’s glittering hoard of gold,To gladden when the fallen leaves careenOn fairy keels upon the windy wold.

For this, for this, my eager mornings broke,For this came sunshine and the lonely rain,For this the stiff and sleepy woods awokeAnd every hawthorn hedge along the lane.

For this God gave me all my joy of verseThat I might shout beneath exultant skies,And meet, as one delivered from a curse,The pardon and the pity in your eyes.

OPENthe casement! From my room,Perched high upon this dizzy spire,My blinded eyes behold the bloomOf gardens in their golden fire.Oh deep, mysterious recompense—Time static to my ardent gaze!No longer mortal veils of senseConceal the blissful ray of rays!Fantastic forests toss their headsFor my immortal youth; on grassBrighter than jewels do the redsOf riotous summer roses pass.I traffic in abysmal seas,And dive for pearls and coloured shells,Where, over seaweeds tall as trees,The waters boom like tenor bells;Where bearded goblin-fish and sharks,With fins as large as eagles’ wings,Throw phosphorescent trails of sparksWhich glitter on drowned Spaniards’ rings.From star to star I pilgrimage,Undaunted in ethereal space;And laugh because the sun in rageShoots harmless arrows at my face.For even if the skies should flareIn God’s last catastrophic blaze,My happy, blinded eyes would stareOnly upon the ray of rays.

OPENthe casement! From my room,Perched high upon this dizzy spire,My blinded eyes behold the bloomOf gardens in their golden fire.

Oh deep, mysterious recompense—Time static to my ardent gaze!No longer mortal veils of senseConceal the blissful ray of rays!

Fantastic forests toss their headsFor my immortal youth; on grassBrighter than jewels do the redsOf riotous summer roses pass.

I traffic in abysmal seas,And dive for pearls and coloured shells,Where, over seaweeds tall as trees,The waters boom like tenor bells;

Where bearded goblin-fish and sharks,With fins as large as eagles’ wings,Throw phosphorescent trails of sparksWhich glitter on drowned Spaniards’ rings.

From star to star I pilgrimage,Undaunted in ethereal space;And laugh because the sun in rageShoots harmless arrows at my face.

For even if the skies should flareIn God’s last catastrophic blaze,My happy, blinded eyes would stareOnly upon the ray of rays.

January 20th, 1918.

WHENHorace wrote his noble verse,His brilliant, glowing line,He must have gone to bed the worseFor good Falernian wine.No poet yet could praise the roseIn verse that so serenely flowsUnless he dipped his Roman noseIn good Falernian wine.Shakespeare and Jonson tooDrank deep of barley brew—Drank deep of barley brew, my boys,Drank deep of barley brew!When Alexander led his menAgainst the Persian King,He broached a hundred hogsheads, thenThey drank like anything.They drank by day, they drank by night,And when they marshalled for the fightEach put a score of foes to flight—They drank like anything!No warrior worth his saltBut quaffs the mighty malt—But quaffs the mighty malt, my boys,But quaffs the mighty malt!When Patrick into Ireland wentThe works of God to do,It was his excellent intentTo teach men how to brew.The holy saint had in his trainA man of splendid heart and brain—A brewer was this worthy swain—To teach men how to brew.The snakes he drove awayWere teetotallers they say—Teetotallers they say, my boys,Teetotallers they say!

Shakespeare and Jonson tooDrank deep of barley brew—Drank deep of barley brew, my boys,Drank deep of barley brew!

When Alexander led his menAgainst the Persian King,He broached a hundred hogsheads, thenThey drank like anything.They drank by day, they drank by night,And when they marshalled for the fightEach put a score of foes to flight—They drank like anything!

No warrior worth his saltBut quaffs the mighty malt—But quaffs the mighty malt, my boys,But quaffs the mighty malt!

When Patrick into Ireland wentThe works of God to do,It was his excellent intentTo teach men how to brew.The holy saint had in his trainA man of splendid heart and brain—A brewer was this worthy swain—To teach men how to brew.

The snakes he drove awayWere teetotallers they say—Teetotallers they say, my boys,Teetotallers they say!

September 30th, 1917.

IHEARDa story from an oakAs I was walking in the wood—I, of the stupid human-folk,I heard a story from an oak.Though larches into laughter brokeI hardly think I understood.I heard a story from an oakAs I was walking in the wood.

IWOULDN’Tsell my noble thirstFor half-a-dozen bags of gold;I’d like to drink until I burst.I wouldn’t sell my noble thirstFor lucre filthy and accurst—Such treasurescan’tbe bought and sold!I wouldn’t sell my noble thirstFor half-a-dozen bags of gold.

You scattered joy about my wayAnd filled my lips with love and laughterIn white and yellow fields of MayYou scattered joy about my way.Though Winter come with skies of greyAnd grisly death come stalking after,You scattered joy about my wayAnd filled my lips with love and laughter.

INItalie a mony yeer agoThere lived a little childë Catharine,With yongë, merrie hertë clere as snow.From hir first youthful hour she did entwyneRoses both whyt and reed—Godis columbineShe was. And for hir holy gaietyWas by hir neighbours clept Euphrosyne.Ech stepp she took upon hir fadirs staires,Kneeling she did an Ave Mary say;With ful devocioun she seid hir prayersEre that she wentë forth ech day to play;Our Blessid Queen was in hir thought alway—Our Modir Mary whose humilityHath raiséd hir to hevinës magesté.When only sevin was this childës ageShe vowed hirself to sweet virginity,Forsweering eny erthly marriáge,That she the clenë bride of Crist schuld be,Who on the heavy cross ful cruellyThe Jewës nailéd, hevin to open wide—Crist for hir husëbond, she Cristës bride.Swich was the litle innocentes intent,Hirself unspotted from the world to kepe,Al hidden in hir fadirs hous she went.Whether in waking or in purë sleepShe builded hir a closë cellë deep—Where Lordë Cristë colde walk with hir,And hold alway His sweetë convers there.So ful she was of gentil charity,She diddë tend upon the sick ech day;To beggars in their grete necessityShe gave hir cloke and petticoat away;To no poor wightë did she sayë nay—And when reprovéd merrily she spoke,“God loveth Charity more than my cloke.”An oldë widow lay al striken soreWith leprosé, that dreed and foul disease;And to hir (filléd to the hertë coreWith love of God) that she schuld bring hir easeDid Catharine come, nor did hit hir displeseThat she schuld wash the woundës tenderly,And bind hem up for Goddës charity.And though the pacient waxéd querulous,The blessid seintë wearied neer a whit,For hir upbrading tong so slanderous,Nor even when upon hir handës litThe leprosé corrupt and foul—for hitIs nothing to the shamë Goddë boreWhen nailes and speares His smoothë flesch y-tore.But now behold a woundrous miracle!For al that Seintë Catharine colde do,Hir pacient died and was y-carried welUnto hir gravë by stout men and true.When they upon hir corse the cloddës threw,Then new as eny childës gan to shineThe shrivvelled handes of holy Catharine!There livéd there a youth clept Nicholas,Who made in that citee seditioun,Causing a gretë riot in that place,So that the magistratës of the tounHent him and cast him in a strong prisoun;And thilkë wightë they anon did try,And for his sin condemnéd him to die.And Catharine y-waxéd piteousTo see him brought unto this sorry case,And went to him unto the prisoun housTo move his soul to Jhesu Cristës grace.So yong he was and fresh and faire of face,Hir hertë movéd was as to a son,And he by hir sweet, gracious wordes was won.That for his deth he made a good accord,And was y-shriven wel of his assoyl,And with a humble soul received our LordFrom the prestes hands. His hertë that did boilBut little whyles ago—was freed from toil,And fixéd on our Lordës precious blood,Which for our sak He spilléd on the rood.And when he came to executioun,No feer had he nor eny bitter care,But walked among the guardës thurgh the tounIn joy so hye as if he trod on air.Seint Catharine she was y-waiting thereTo cheer his soul against the dreedful end,When unto God his soul at last most wend.And there thilke holy virgin welcomed him;“Come, Nicholas,” she said, “my sonnë deere.The boul of glorious life is at the brim—Come, Nicholas—your nuptials are neer;The bridegroom calleth, be you of good cheer.”And whyl they madë redy, on hir brestShe kept the hed of Nicholas at rest.And when that al in ordre had been set,She stretchéd out his nekkë tenderly,“This day your soulës bridegroom shal be met.Hark! how He calleth, sweet and winsomely.”And Nicholas spak to hir ful of glee—“Jhesu” and “Catharine” the wordes he seid;Then fel the ax and severed off his hed.And even as his bloody hed did fall,She caught hit in her lap and handës faire,Nor reckéd that the blood was over alHir robës, but she kissed hit sitting there,And smoothéd doun the rough and ragged hair.God wot that gretë peace was in hir herteThat Nicholas in hevin had found his part.O holy Catharine, pray for us then,Be to our soules a modir and a frend;We are poor wandering and sinful men,And al unstable through the world we wend.Pray for us, Catharine, unto the end,That filléd with thy gretë charityIn Goddës love we schuldë live and die.

Ech stepp she took upon hir fadirs staires,Kneeling she did an Ave Mary say;With ful devocioun she seid hir prayersEre that she wentë forth ech day to play;Our Blessid Queen was in hir thought alway—Our Modir Mary whose humilityHath raiséd hir to hevinës magesté.

When only sevin was this childës ageShe vowed hirself to sweet virginity,Forsweering eny erthly marriáge,That she the clenë bride of Crist schuld be,Who on the heavy cross ful cruellyThe Jewës nailéd, hevin to open wide—Crist for hir husëbond, she Cristës bride.

Swich was the litle innocentes intent,Hirself unspotted from the world to kepe,Al hidden in hir fadirs hous she went.Whether in waking or in purë sleepShe builded hir a closë cellë deep—Where Lordë Cristë colde walk with hir,And hold alway His sweetë convers there.

So ful she was of gentil charity,She diddë tend upon the sick ech day;To beggars in their grete necessityShe gave hir cloke and petticoat away;To no poor wightë did she sayë nay—And when reprovéd merrily she spoke,“God loveth Charity more than my cloke.”

An oldë widow lay al striken soreWith leprosé, that dreed and foul disease;And to hir (filléd to the hertë coreWith love of God) that she schuld bring hir easeDid Catharine come, nor did hit hir displeseThat she schuld wash the woundës tenderly,And bind hem up for Goddës charity.

And though the pacient waxéd querulous,The blessid seintë wearied neer a whit,For hir upbrading tong so slanderous,Nor even when upon hir handës litThe leprosé corrupt and foul—for hitIs nothing to the shamë Goddë boreWhen nailes and speares His smoothë flesch y-tore.

But now behold a woundrous miracle!For al that Seintë Catharine colde do,Hir pacient died and was y-carried welUnto hir gravë by stout men and true.When they upon hir corse the cloddës threw,Then new as eny childës gan to shineThe shrivvelled handes of holy Catharine!

There livéd there a youth clept Nicholas,Who made in that citee seditioun,Causing a gretë riot in that place,So that the magistratës of the tounHent him and cast him in a strong prisoun;And thilkë wightë they anon did try,And for his sin condemnéd him to die.

And Catharine y-waxéd piteousTo see him brought unto this sorry case,And went to him unto the prisoun housTo move his soul to Jhesu Cristës grace.So yong he was and fresh and faire of face,Hir hertë movéd was as to a son,And he by hir sweet, gracious wordes was won.

That for his deth he made a good accord,And was y-shriven wel of his assoyl,And with a humble soul received our LordFrom the prestes hands. His hertë that did boilBut little whyles ago—was freed from toil,And fixéd on our Lordës precious blood,Which for our sak He spilléd on the rood.

And when he came to executioun,No feer had he nor eny bitter care,But walked among the guardës thurgh the tounIn joy so hye as if he trod on air.Seint Catharine she was y-waiting thereTo cheer his soul against the dreedful end,When unto God his soul at last most wend.

And there thilke holy virgin welcomed him;“Come, Nicholas,” she said, “my sonnë deere.The boul of glorious life is at the brim—Come, Nicholas—your nuptials are neer;The bridegroom calleth, be you of good cheer.”And whyl they madë redy, on hir brestShe kept the hed of Nicholas at rest.

And when that al in ordre had been set,She stretchéd out his nekkë tenderly,“This day your soulës bridegroom shal be met.Hark! how He calleth, sweet and winsomely.”And Nicholas spak to hir ful of glee—“Jhesu” and “Catharine” the wordes he seid;Then fel the ax and severed off his hed.

And even as his bloody hed did fall,She caught hit in her lap and handës faire,Nor reckéd that the blood was over alHir robës, but she kissed hit sitting there,And smoothéd doun the rough and ragged hair.God wot that gretë peace was in hir herteThat Nicholas in hevin had found his part.

O holy Catharine, pray for us then,Be to our soules a modir and a frend;We are poor wandering and sinful men,And al unstable through the world we wend.Pray for us, Catharine, unto the end,That filléd with thy gretë charityIn Goddës love we schuldë live and die.

THOUGHnow we see, as through the battle smoke,The image of your young uplifted faceSurprised by death, and broken as it brokeThe hearts of those who loved your eager grace,Your noble air and magnanimity—A summer perfect in its flowers and leaves,Brave promises of fruitfulness to be,Which now no hand may bind in goodly sheaves—No hand but God’s.... Yet your remembered ways,Your eyes alight with gentleness and mirth,The lovely honour of your shortened days,A new grave gladness on the furrowed earthShall sow for us, a new pride wide and deep—And we shall see the corn—and reap, and reap.

YOUwho have died as royally as kings,Have seen with eyes ablaze with beauty, eyesNor gold nor ease nor comfort could make wise,The glory of imperishable things.Despite your shame and loneliness and loss—Your broken hopes, the hopes that shall not cease,Endure in dreams as terrible as peace;Your naked folly nailed upon the crossHas given us more than bread unto our dearthAnd more than water to our aching drouth;Though death has been as wormwood in your mouthYour blood shall fructify the barren earth.

YOUwho have died as royally as kings,Have seen with eyes ablaze with beauty, eyesNor gold nor ease nor comfort could make wise,The glory of imperishable things.

Despite your shame and loneliness and loss—Your broken hopes, the hopes that shall not cease,Endure in dreams as terrible as peace;Your naked folly nailed upon the cross

Has given us more than bread unto our dearthAnd more than water to our aching drouth;Though death has been as wormwood in your mouthYour blood shall fructify the barren earth.

August 11th, 1917.

SHALLit be told in tragic song and storyOf two who went embittered all their days,Two lovely Queens divided in their waysUntil their hearts grew hard, their tresses hoary?Or shall the flying wings of oratoryOf him who bore a great hope on his faceBring from the grave reunion to the graceThat men call Ireland and to England’s glory?Courageous soul, not yet the work is ended:The perfect pact you never lived to see,The peace between the warring sisters mendedMust of your patient labours come to be,When in a noise of trumpets loud and splendidThe Gael hears blown the name of liberty.

Courageous soul, not yet the work is ended:The perfect pact you never lived to see,The peace between the warring sisters mendedMust of your patient labours come to be,When in a noise of trumpets loud and splendidThe Gael hears blown the name of liberty.

March 8th, 1918.

HOWmany are the forms that beauty shows;To what dim shrines of sweet, forgotten artShe calls; on what wide seas her strong wind blowsThe proud and perilous passion of the heart!How many are the forms of her decay;The blood that stains the dying of the sun,The love and loveliness that pass awayLike roses’ petals scattered one by one.But there shall issue through the ivory gate,Amid a mist of dreams, one dream-come-true,Beauty immortal, mighty of estate,The beauty that a poet loved in you;The goodness God has set as aureoleUpon the naked meekness of your soul.

HOWmany are the forms that beauty shows;To what dim shrines of sweet, forgotten artShe calls; on what wide seas her strong wind blowsThe proud and perilous passion of the heart!

How many are the forms of her decay;The blood that stains the dying of the sun,The love and loveliness that pass awayLike roses’ petals scattered one by one.

But there shall issue through the ivory gate,Amid a mist of dreams, one dream-come-true,Beauty immortal, mighty of estate,The beauty that a poet loved in you;The goodness God has set as aureoleUpon the naked meekness of your soul.

July 22nd, 1917.

WHOshall take Beauty in her citadel?Her gates will splinter not to battering days;Her slender spires can bear the onslaught well.Shall any track her through her secret waysTo snare the pinions of the golden bird?A feather falling through the jewelled air,Only the echo of a lovely word—Nowhere her being is, and everywhere.But one may come at last through many woesAnd pain and hunger to his resting place,The watered garden of the Mystic Rose,The contemplation of the Bruisèd Face—The quest of all his wild, adventurous pride;And, seeing Beauty, shall be satisfied.

But one may come at last through many woesAnd pain and hunger to his resting place,The watered garden of the Mystic Rose,The contemplation of the Bruisèd Face—The quest of all his wild, adventurous pride;And, seeing Beauty, shall be satisfied.

July 29th, 1917.

Not these appalThe soul tip-toeing to belief:The ribald call,The last black anguish of the thief;The fellowshipOf publican and Pharisee,The harlot’s lipPassionate with humility;Or the feet kissedBy her who was the Magdalen—The sensualistIs one among a world of men!Oh, I can lookUpon another’s drama; readAs in a bookThings unrelated to my need;Give faith’s assentTo that abysmal love outpoured—But why was rentThy seamless coat forme, dear Lord?Why didst Thou bowThy bleeding brows formyheart’s good?How shall I nowReach to the mystic hardihoodWhere I can takeFor personal treasure all Thy loss,When for my sake,My sake, Thou didst endure the cross?For my soul’s worthWas “It is finished!” loudly cried?For me the birth,The sorrows of the Crucified?

Not these appalThe soul tip-toeing to belief:The ribald call,The last black anguish of the thief;

The fellowshipOf publican and Pharisee,The harlot’s lipPassionate with humility;

Or the feet kissedBy her who was the Magdalen—The sensualistIs one among a world of men!

Oh, I can lookUpon another’s drama; readAs in a bookThings unrelated to my need;

Give faith’s assentTo that abysmal love outpoured—But why was rentThy seamless coat forme, dear Lord?

Why didst Thou bowThy bleeding brows formyheart’s good?How shall I nowReach to the mystic hardihood

Where I can takeFor personal treasure all Thy loss,When for my sake,My sake, Thou didst endure the cross?

For my soul’s worthWas “It is finished!” loudly cried?For me the birth,The sorrows of the Crucified?

February 16th, 1918.

HEREshall we bivouac beneath the stars;Gather the remnant of our chivalryAbout the crackling fires, and nurse our scars,And speak no more as fools must, bitterly.The roads familiar to His feet we trod;We saw the lonely hills whereon He wept,Prayed, agonised—dear God of very God!—And watched the whole world while the whole world slept.We speak no more in anger; Christian menOur armies rolled upon you, wave and wave:But crooked words and swords, O Saracen,Can only hold what they have given—a grave!We know Him, know that gibbet whence was tornThe pardon that a felon spoke on sin:There is more life in His dead crown of thornThan in your sweeping horsemen, Saladin!We speak no more in anger, we will rideHomeless to our own homes. His bruised headHad never resting place. Each Christmas-tideBlossoms the thorn and we are comforted.Yea, of the sacred cradle of our creedWe are despoiled; the kindly tavern doorIs shut against us in our utmost need—We know the awful patience of the poor.We speak no more in anger, for we shareHis homelessness. We will forget your scorn.The bells are ringing in the Christmas air;God homeless in our homeless homes is born.

HEREshall we bivouac beneath the stars;Gather the remnant of our chivalryAbout the crackling fires, and nurse our scars,And speak no more as fools must, bitterly.

The roads familiar to His feet we trod;We saw the lonely hills whereon He wept,Prayed, agonised—dear God of very God!—And watched the whole world while the whole world slept.

We speak no more in anger; Christian menOur armies rolled upon you, wave and wave:But crooked words and swords, O Saracen,Can only hold what they have given—a grave!

We know Him, know that gibbet whence was tornThe pardon that a felon spoke on sin:There is more life in His dead crown of thornThan in your sweeping horsemen, Saladin!

We speak no more in anger, we will rideHomeless to our own homes. His bruised headHad never resting place. Each Christmas-tideBlossoms the thorn and we are comforted.

Yea, of the sacred cradle of our creedWe are despoiled; the kindly tavern doorIs shut against us in our utmost need—We know the awful patience of the poor.

We speak no more in anger, for we shareHis homelessness. We will forget your scorn.The bells are ringing in the Christmas air;God homeless in our homeless homes is born.

AWILDwind blows from out the angry skyAnd all the clouds are tossed like thistle-downAbove the groaning branches of the trees;For on this steel-cold night the earth is stirredTo shake away its rottenness; the leavesAre shed like secret unremembered sinsIn the great scourge of the great love of God....Ere I was learned in the ways of loveI looked for it in green and pleasant lands,In apple orchards and the poppy fields,And peered among the silences of woods,And meditated the shy notes of birdsBut found it not.Oh, many a goodly joyOf grace and gentle beauty came to meOn many a clear and cleansing night of stars.But when I sat among my happy friends(Singing their songs and drinking of their ale,Warming my limbs before their kindly hearth)My loneliness would seize me like a pain,A hunger strong and alien as death.No comfort stays with such a man as I,No resting place amid the dew and dusk,Whose head is filled with perilous enterpriseThe endless quest of my wild fruitless love.But these can tell how they have heard His voice,Have seen His face in pure untroubled sleep,Or when the twilight gathered on the hillsOr when the moon shone out beyond the sea!HaveInot seen them? Yet I pilgrimageIn desolation seeking after peace,Learning how hard a thing it is to love.There is a love that men find easily,Familiar as the latch upon the door,Dear as the curling smoke above the thatch—But I have loved unto the uttermostAnd know love in the desperate abyss,In dereliction and in blasphemy!And fly from God to find him, fill my eyesWith road-dust and with tears and starry hopes,Ere I may search out Love unsearchable,Eternal Truth and Goodness infinite,And the ineffable Beauty that is God.Empty of scorn and ceasing not to praiseThe meanest stick and stone upon the earth,I strive unto the stark Reality,The Absolute grasped roundly in my hands.Bitter and pitiless it is to love,To feel the darkness gather round the soul,Love’s abnegation for the sake of love,To see my Templed symbols’ slow decayBecome of every ravenous weed the food,Where bats beat hideous wings about the archAnd ruined roof, where ghosts of tragic kingsAnd sleek ecclesiastics come and goUpon the shattered pavements of my creed.Yet Mercy at the last shall lead me in,The Bride immaculate and mysticalTenderly guide my wayward feet to peace,And show me love the likeness of a Man,The Slave obedient unto death, the LambSlain from the first foundations of the world,The Word made flesh, the tender new-born ChildThat is the end of all my heart’s desire.Then shall my spirit, naked of its hopes,Stripped of its love unto the very bone,Sink simply into Love’s embrace and beMade consummate of all its burning bliss.

Ere I was learned in the ways of loveI looked for it in green and pleasant lands,In apple orchards and the poppy fields,And peered among the silences of woods,And meditated the shy notes of birdsBut found it not.

Oh, many a goodly joyOf grace and gentle beauty came to meOn many a clear and cleansing night of stars.But when I sat among my happy friends(Singing their songs and drinking of their ale,Warming my limbs before their kindly hearth)My loneliness would seize me like a pain,A hunger strong and alien as death.

No comfort stays with such a man as I,No resting place amid the dew and dusk,Whose head is filled with perilous enterpriseThe endless quest of my wild fruitless love.

But these can tell how they have heard His voice,Have seen His face in pure untroubled sleep,Or when the twilight gathered on the hillsOr when the moon shone out beyond the sea!

HaveInot seen them? Yet I pilgrimageIn desolation seeking after peace,Learning how hard a thing it is to love.There is a love that men find easily,Familiar as the latch upon the door,Dear as the curling smoke above the thatch—But I have loved unto the uttermostAnd know love in the desperate abyss,In dereliction and in blasphemy!And fly from God to find him, fill my eyesWith road-dust and with tears and starry hopes,Ere I may search out Love unsearchable,Eternal Truth and Goodness infinite,And the ineffable Beauty that is God.

Empty of scorn and ceasing not to praiseThe meanest stick and stone upon the earth,I strive unto the stark Reality,The Absolute grasped roundly in my hands.Bitter and pitiless it is to love,To feel the darkness gather round the soul,Love’s abnegation for the sake of love,To see my Templed symbols’ slow decayBecome of every ravenous weed the food,Where bats beat hideous wings about the archAnd ruined roof, where ghosts of tragic kingsAnd sleek ecclesiastics come and goUpon the shattered pavements of my creed.

Yet Mercy at the last shall lead me in,The Bride immaculate and mysticalTenderly guide my wayward feet to peace,And show me love the likeness of a Man,The Slave obedient unto death, the LambSlain from the first foundations of the world,The Word made flesh, the tender new-born ChildThat is the end of all my heart’s desire.

Then shall my spirit, naked of its hopes,Stripped of its love unto the very bone,Sink simply into Love’s embrace and beMade consummate of all its burning bliss.

August 26th, 1917.

IFI had ridden horses in the lists,Fought wars, gone pilgrimage to fabled lands,Seen Pharaoh’s drinking cups of amethysts,Held dead Queens’ secret jewels in my hands—I would have laid my triumphs at your feet,And worn with no ignoble pride my scars....But I can only offer you, my sweet,The songs I made on many a night of stars.Yet have I worshipped honour, loving you;Your graciousness and gentle courtesy,With ringing and romantic trumpets blewA mighty music through the heart of me,—A joy as cleansing as the wind that fillsThe open spaces on the sunny hills.

Yet have I worshipped honour, loving you;Your graciousness and gentle courtesy,With ringing and romantic trumpets blewA mighty music through the heart of me,—A joy as cleansing as the wind that fillsThe open spaces on the sunny hills.

WHENI consider all thy dignity,Thy honour which my baseness doth accuseTo my own soul, thy pride which doth refuseLess than the suffering thou hast given me,My hope is chilled to fear. How stealthilyMust I dispose my forces! With what ruseAnd ambush snatch the bearer of good news,Ere I can escalade austerity!Easier it were to fling the baleful lordAnd the infernal legions of the Pit,To ride undaunted at that roaring horde:But who shall armour me with delicate witSufficient for thine overthrow? What swordWin to the tower where thy perfections sit?

Easier it were to fling the baleful lordAnd the infernal legions of the Pit,To ride undaunted at that roaring horde:But who shall armour me with delicate witSufficient for thine overthrow? What swordWin to the tower where thy perfections sit?

March 10th, 1918.

THOUhast renounced thy proud and royal state;Deserted thy strong men-at-arms who standAttentive to imperious command;And with a small key at the groaning gate—Sweet traitress!—met thine enemy. The greatMoon threw a white enchantment o’er the landWhen in my hand I caught thy yielded hand,And laughing kissed thy laughing lips elate.For of thy queenly folly thou hast laidIn sandalwood thy stiff, embroidered gown;With happiness apparelled thou hast strayedIncognitathrough many a sunlit town,Heedless of our uncaptained hosts arrayedOr of the flags their battles shall bring down.

For of thy queenly folly thou hast laidIn sandalwood thy stiff, embroidered gown;With happiness apparelled thou hast strayedIncognitathrough many a sunlit town,Heedless of our uncaptained hosts arrayedOr of the flags their battles shall bring down.

March 17th, 1918.

THEREwas an hour when stars flung outA magical wild melody,When all the woods became aliveWith elfin dance and revelry.A holiday for happy hearts!—The trees shone silver in the moon,And clapped their gleaming hands to seeNight like a radiant kindled noon!For suddenly a new world wokeAt one new touch of wizardry,When my love from her mirthful mouthSpoke words of sweet true love to me.

THEREwas an hour when stars flung outA magical wild melody,When all the woods became aliveWith elfin dance and revelry.

A holiday for happy hearts!—The trees shone silver in the moon,And clapped their gleaming hands to seeNight like a radiant kindled noon!

For suddenly a new world wokeAt one new touch of wizardry,When my love from her mirthful mouthSpoke words of sweet true love to me.

February 9th, 1918.

WHENevening hangs her lamp above the hillAnd calls her children to her waiting hearth,Where pain is shed away and love and wrath,And every tired head lies white and still—Dear heart, will you not light a lamp for me,And gather up the meaning of the lands,Silent and luminous within your hands,Where peace abides and mirth and mystery?That I may sit with you beside the fire,And ponder on the thing no man may guess,Your soul’s great majesty and gentleness,Until the last sad tongue of flame expire.

WHENevening hangs her lamp above the hillAnd calls her children to her waiting hearth,Where pain is shed away and love and wrath,And every tired head lies white and still—

Dear heart, will you not light a lamp for me,And gather up the meaning of the lands,Silent and luminous within your hands,Where peace abides and mirth and mystery?

That I may sit with you beside the fire,And ponder on the thing no man may guess,Your soul’s great majesty and gentleness,Until the last sad tongue of flame expire.

December 21st, 1916.

WHOhaving known through night a great star fallingWith half the host of heaven in its wake,And o’er chaotic seas a dread voice calling,And a new purple dawn of presage break,Can hope to conquer thee, proud Son of Morning,Arrayed in mighty lusts of heart and eyes,With blood-red rubies set for thine adorningAnd sorceries wherein men’s souls grow wise?Who shall withstand the onslaught of thy chariot,Who ride to battle with thy gorgeous kings?Dost thou not count the silver to Iscariot,And Tyrian scarlet and the marvellous rings?But ivory limbs and the flung festal roses,The maddening music and the Chian wine,Are overpast when one glad heart disclosesA pride more strange and terrible than thine!That looked unsatisfied upon thy splendour,And turned, all shaken with his love, awayTo one dear face that holds him true and tenderUntil the trumpets of the Judgment Day.A pride that binds him till the last fierce emberShall fade from pride’s tall roaring pyre in hell;The gentleness and grace he shall remember,The flower she gave, the love that she did tell.

WHOhaving known through night a great star fallingWith half the host of heaven in its wake,And o’er chaotic seas a dread voice calling,And a new purple dawn of presage break,

Can hope to conquer thee, proud Son of Morning,Arrayed in mighty lusts of heart and eyes,With blood-red rubies set for thine adorningAnd sorceries wherein men’s souls grow wise?

Who shall withstand the onslaught of thy chariot,Who ride to battle with thy gorgeous kings?Dost thou not count the silver to Iscariot,And Tyrian scarlet and the marvellous rings?

But ivory limbs and the flung festal roses,The maddening music and the Chian wine,Are overpast when one glad heart disclosesA pride more strange and terrible than thine!

That looked unsatisfied upon thy splendour,And turned, all shaken with his love, awayTo one dear face that holds him true and tenderUntil the trumpets of the Judgment Day.

A pride that binds him till the last fierce emberShall fade from pride’s tall roaring pyre in hell;The gentleness and grace he shall remember,The flower she gave, the love that she did tell.

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