“Beauty dwindles into shadow,Beauty dies, preferred by Fate,Past the rescue of bold thought.Sentries drowsed,” they say, “at Beauty’s gate.”“Time duteous to his hour-glass,Time with unerring sickle,Garners to a land remoteWhere your vows of true love are proved fickle.”“Love chill upon her forehead,Love fading from her cheek,Love dulled in either eye,With voice of love,” they say, “no more to speak.”I deny to Time his terror;Come-and-go prevails not here;Spring is constant, loveless winterLooms, but elsewhere, for he comes not near.I deny to Space the sorrow;No leagues measure love from me;Turning boldly from her arms,Into her arms I shall come certainly.Time and Space, folly’s wonder,Three-card shufflers, magic-men!True love is, that none shall sayIt ever was, or ever flowers again.
“Beauty dwindles into shadow,Beauty dies, preferred by Fate,Past the rescue of bold thought.Sentries drowsed,” they say, “at Beauty’s gate.”“Time duteous to his hour-glass,Time with unerring sickle,Garners to a land remoteWhere your vows of true love are proved fickle.”“Love chill upon her forehead,Love fading from her cheek,Love dulled in either eye,With voice of love,” they say, “no more to speak.”I deny to Time his terror;Come-and-go prevails not here;Spring is constant, loveless winterLooms, but elsewhere, for he comes not near.I deny to Space the sorrow;No leagues measure love from me;Turning boldly from her arms,Into her arms I shall come certainly.Time and Space, folly’s wonder,Three-card shufflers, magic-men!True love is, that none shall sayIt ever was, or ever flowers again.
“Beauty dwindles into shadow,Beauty dies, preferred by Fate,Past the rescue of bold thought.Sentries drowsed,” they say, “at Beauty’s gate.”
“Time duteous to his hour-glass,Time with unerring sickle,Garners to a land remoteWhere your vows of true love are proved fickle.”
“Love chill upon her forehead,Love fading from her cheek,Love dulled in either eye,With voice of love,” they say, “no more to speak.”
I deny to Time his terror;Come-and-go prevails not here;Spring is constant, loveless winterLooms, but elsewhere, for he comes not near.
I deny to Space the sorrow;No leagues measure love from me;Turning boldly from her arms,Into her arms I shall come certainly.
Time and Space, folly’s wonder,Three-card shufflers, magic-men!True love is, that none shall sayIt ever was, or ever flowers again.
Who grafted quince on Western may,Sharon’s mild rose on Northern briar?In loathing since that Gospel dayThe two saps flame, the tree’s on fire.The briar-rose weeps for injured right,May sprouts up red to choke the quince.With angry throb of equal spiteOur wood leaps maddened ever since.Then mistletoe, of gods not least,Kindler of warfare since the Flood,Against green things of South and EastVoices the vengeance of our blood.Crusading ivy Southward breaksAnd sucks your lordly palms upon,Our island oak the water takesTo outrage cedared Lebanon.Our slender ash-twigs feathered flyAgainst your vines; bold buttercupPours down his legions; malt of ryeInflames and burns your lentils up....For bloom of quince yet caps the may,The briar is held by Sharon’s rose,Monsters of thought through earth we stray,And how remission comes, God knows.
Who grafted quince on Western may,Sharon’s mild rose on Northern briar?In loathing since that Gospel dayThe two saps flame, the tree’s on fire.The briar-rose weeps for injured right,May sprouts up red to choke the quince.With angry throb of equal spiteOur wood leaps maddened ever since.Then mistletoe, of gods not least,Kindler of warfare since the Flood,Against green things of South and EastVoices the vengeance of our blood.Crusading ivy Southward breaksAnd sucks your lordly palms upon,Our island oak the water takesTo outrage cedared Lebanon.Our slender ash-twigs feathered flyAgainst your vines; bold buttercupPours down his legions; malt of ryeInflames and burns your lentils up....For bloom of quince yet caps the may,The briar is held by Sharon’s rose,Monsters of thought through earth we stray,And how remission comes, God knows.
Who grafted quince on Western may,Sharon’s mild rose on Northern briar?In loathing since that Gospel dayThe two saps flame, the tree’s on fire.
The briar-rose weeps for injured right,May sprouts up red to choke the quince.With angry throb of equal spiteOur wood leaps maddened ever since.
Then mistletoe, of gods not least,Kindler of warfare since the Flood,Against green things of South and EastVoices the vengeance of our blood.
Crusading ivy Southward breaksAnd sucks your lordly palms upon,Our island oak the water takesTo outrage cedared Lebanon.
Our slender ash-twigs feathered flyAgainst your vines; bold buttercupPours down his legions; malt of ryeInflames and burns your lentils up....
For bloom of quince yet caps the may,The briar is held by Sharon’s rose,Monsters of thought through earth we stray,And how remission comes, God knows.
A page, a huntsman, and a priest of God,Her lovers, met in jealous contrariety,Equally claiming the sole parenthoodOf him the perfect crown of their variety.Then, whom to admit, herself she could not tell;That always was her fate, she loved too well.“But, many-fathered little one,” she said,“Whether of high or low, of smooth or rough,Here is your mother whom you brought to bed.Acknowledge only me, be this enough,For such as worship after shall be toldA white dove sired you or a rain of gold.”
A page, a huntsman, and a priest of God,Her lovers, met in jealous contrariety,Equally claiming the sole parenthoodOf him the perfect crown of their variety.Then, whom to admit, herself she could not tell;That always was her fate, she loved too well.“But, many-fathered little one,” she said,“Whether of high or low, of smooth or rough,Here is your mother whom you brought to bed.Acknowledge only me, be this enough,For such as worship after shall be toldA white dove sired you or a rain of gold.”
A page, a huntsman, and a priest of God,Her lovers, met in jealous contrariety,Equally claiming the sole parenthoodOf him the perfect crown of their variety.Then, whom to admit, herself she could not tell;That always was her fate, she loved too well.
“But, many-fathered little one,” she said,“Whether of high or low, of smooth or rough,Here is your mother whom you brought to bed.Acknowledge only me, be this enough,For such as worship after shall be toldA white dove sired you or a rain of gold.”
Said hermit monk to hermit monk,“Friend, in this island anchorageOur life has tranquilly been sunkFrom pious youth to pious age,“In such clear waves of quietness,Such peace from argument or brawlThat one prime virtue I confessHas never touched our hearts at all.“Forgiveness, friend! who can forgiveBut after anger or dissent?This never-pardoning life we liveMay earn God’s blackest punishment.”His friend, resolved to find a groundFor rough dispute between the twoThat mutual pardons might abound,With cunning from his wallet drewA curious pebble of the beachAnd scowled, “This treasure is my own:”He hoped for sharp unfriendly speechOr angry snatching at the stone.But honeyed words his friend outpours,“Keep it, dear heart, you surely knowEven were it mine it still were yours,This trifle that delights you so.”The owner, acting wrath, cries, “Brother,What’s this? Are my deserts so smallYou’d give me trifles?” But the otherSmiles, “Brother, you may take my all.”He then enraged with one so meek,So unresponsive to his mood,Most soundly smites the martyr cheekAnd rends the island quietude.The martyr, who till now has feignedIn third degree of craftinessThat meekness is so deep ingrainedNo taunt or slight can make it less,Spits out the tooth in honest wrath,“You hit too hard, old fool,” cried he.They grapple on the rocky pathThat zigzags downward to the sea.In rising fury strained and stiffThey lunge across the narrow ground;They topple headlong from the cliffAnd murderously embraced are drowned.. . . . . . . . . .Here Peter sits: two spirits reachTo sound the knocker at his Gate.They shower forgiveness each on each,Beaming triumphant and elate.But oh, their sweats, their secret fearsLest clod-souled witnesses may riseTo set a tingling at their earsAnd bar the approach to Paradise!
Said hermit monk to hermit monk,“Friend, in this island anchorageOur life has tranquilly been sunkFrom pious youth to pious age,“In such clear waves of quietness,Such peace from argument or brawlThat one prime virtue I confessHas never touched our hearts at all.“Forgiveness, friend! who can forgiveBut after anger or dissent?This never-pardoning life we liveMay earn God’s blackest punishment.”His friend, resolved to find a groundFor rough dispute between the twoThat mutual pardons might abound,With cunning from his wallet drewA curious pebble of the beachAnd scowled, “This treasure is my own:”He hoped for sharp unfriendly speechOr angry snatching at the stone.But honeyed words his friend outpours,“Keep it, dear heart, you surely knowEven were it mine it still were yours,This trifle that delights you so.”The owner, acting wrath, cries, “Brother,What’s this? Are my deserts so smallYou’d give me trifles?” But the otherSmiles, “Brother, you may take my all.”He then enraged with one so meek,So unresponsive to his mood,Most soundly smites the martyr cheekAnd rends the island quietude.The martyr, who till now has feignedIn third degree of craftinessThat meekness is so deep ingrainedNo taunt or slight can make it less,Spits out the tooth in honest wrath,“You hit too hard, old fool,” cried he.They grapple on the rocky pathThat zigzags downward to the sea.In rising fury strained and stiffThey lunge across the narrow ground;They topple headlong from the cliffAnd murderously embraced are drowned.. . . . . . . . . .Here Peter sits: two spirits reachTo sound the knocker at his Gate.They shower forgiveness each on each,Beaming triumphant and elate.But oh, their sweats, their secret fearsLest clod-souled witnesses may riseTo set a tingling at their earsAnd bar the approach to Paradise!
Said hermit monk to hermit monk,“Friend, in this island anchorageOur life has tranquilly been sunkFrom pious youth to pious age,
“In such clear waves of quietness,Such peace from argument or brawlThat one prime virtue I confessHas never touched our hearts at all.
“Forgiveness, friend! who can forgiveBut after anger or dissent?This never-pardoning life we liveMay earn God’s blackest punishment.”
His friend, resolved to find a groundFor rough dispute between the twoThat mutual pardons might abound,With cunning from his wallet drew
A curious pebble of the beachAnd scowled, “This treasure is my own:”He hoped for sharp unfriendly speechOr angry snatching at the stone.
But honeyed words his friend outpours,“Keep it, dear heart, you surely knowEven were it mine it still were yours,This trifle that delights you so.”
The owner, acting wrath, cries, “Brother,What’s this? Are my deserts so smallYou’d give me trifles?” But the otherSmiles, “Brother, you may take my all.”
He then enraged with one so meek,So unresponsive to his mood,Most soundly smites the martyr cheekAnd rends the island quietude.
The martyr, who till now has feignedIn third degree of craftinessThat meekness is so deep ingrainedNo taunt or slight can make it less,
Spits out the tooth in honest wrath,“You hit too hard, old fool,” cried he.They grapple on the rocky pathThat zigzags downward to the sea.
In rising fury strained and stiffThey lunge across the narrow ground;They topple headlong from the cliffAnd murderously embraced are drowned.. . . . . . . . . .Here Peter sits: two spirits reachTo sound the knocker at his Gate.They shower forgiveness each on each,Beaming triumphant and elate.
But oh, their sweats, their secret fearsLest clod-souled witnesses may riseTo set a tingling at their earsAnd bar the approach to Paradise!
Her hand falls helpless: thought amazements flyFar overhead, they leave no record mark—Wild swans urged whistling across dazzled sky,Or Gabriel hounds in chorus through the dark.Yet when she prophesies, each spirit swan,Each spectral hound from memory’s windy zones,Flies back to inspire one limb-strewn skeletonOf thousands in her valley of dry bones.There as those life-restored battalions shout,Succession flags and Time goes maimed in flight:From each live gullet twenty swans glide outWith hell-packs loathlier yet to amaze the night.
Her hand falls helpless: thought amazements flyFar overhead, they leave no record mark—Wild swans urged whistling across dazzled sky,Or Gabriel hounds in chorus through the dark.Yet when she prophesies, each spirit swan,Each spectral hound from memory’s windy zones,Flies back to inspire one limb-strewn skeletonOf thousands in her valley of dry bones.There as those life-restored battalions shout,Succession flags and Time goes maimed in flight:From each live gullet twenty swans glide outWith hell-packs loathlier yet to amaze the night.
Her hand falls helpless: thought amazements flyFar overhead, they leave no record mark—Wild swans urged whistling across dazzled sky,Or Gabriel hounds in chorus through the dark.
Yet when she prophesies, each spirit swan,Each spectral hound from memory’s windy zones,Flies back to inspire one limb-strewn skeletonOf thousands in her valley of dry bones.
There as those life-restored battalions shout,Succession flags and Time goes maimed in flight:From each live gullet twenty swans glide outWith hell-packs loathlier yet to amaze the night.
Gabriel hounds, a spectral pack hunting the souls of the damned through the air at night: the origin of this belief some find in the strange noise made by the passage of flocks of wild geese or swans.
Death, kindly eager to pretendHimself my servant in the land of spears,Humble allegiance at the endBroke where the homeward track your castle nears,Let his white steed before my red steed pressAnd rapt you from me into quietness.
Death, kindly eager to pretendHimself my servant in the land of spears,Humble allegiance at the endBroke where the homeward track your castle nears,Let his white steed before my red steed pressAnd rapt you from me into quietness.
Death, kindly eager to pretendHimself my servant in the land of spears,Humble allegiance at the endBroke where the homeward track your castle nears,Let his white steed before my red steed pressAnd rapt you from me into quietness.
She trod the grasses grey with dew,She hugged the unlikely head;Avenging where the warrior JewIncontinent had fled.The bearded lips writhed ever moreAt this increase of shame—Killed by a girl, pretending whore,Gone scatheless as she came!His doom yet loathlier that he knewHers was no nation-pride,No high religion snatched and slewWhere he lay stupefied.Nebuchadnezzar’s duke enticedTo pay a megrim’s fee?Assyrian valour sacrificedFor a boudoir dignity?“Only for this, that some tall knaveHad scorned her welcoming bed,For this, the assault, the stroke, the grave,”Groaned Holofernes’ head.
She trod the grasses grey with dew,She hugged the unlikely head;Avenging where the warrior JewIncontinent had fled.The bearded lips writhed ever moreAt this increase of shame—Killed by a girl, pretending whore,Gone scatheless as she came!His doom yet loathlier that he knewHers was no nation-pride,No high religion snatched and slewWhere he lay stupefied.Nebuchadnezzar’s duke enticedTo pay a megrim’s fee?Assyrian valour sacrificedFor a boudoir dignity?“Only for this, that some tall knaveHad scorned her welcoming bed,For this, the assault, the stroke, the grave,”Groaned Holofernes’ head.
She trod the grasses grey with dew,She hugged the unlikely head;Avenging where the warrior JewIncontinent had fled.
The bearded lips writhed ever moreAt this increase of shame—Killed by a girl, pretending whore,Gone scatheless as she came!
His doom yet loathlier that he knewHers was no nation-pride,No high religion snatched and slewWhere he lay stupefied.
Nebuchadnezzar’s duke enticedTo pay a megrim’s fee?Assyrian valour sacrificedFor a boudoir dignity?
“Only for this, that some tall knaveHad scorned her welcoming bed,For this, the assault, the stroke, the grave,”Groaned Holofernes’ head.
The old man in his fast carLeaves Achilles lagging,The old man with his long gunOutshoots Ulysses’ bow,Nestor in his botched old ageRivals Ajax bragging,To Nestor’s honeyed courtshipCould Helen say “No”?Yet, ancient, since you borrowFrom youth the strength and speed,Seducing as an equalHis playmates in the night,He, robbed, assumes your sceptre,He overgoes your rede,And with his brown and lively hairsOut-prophesies your white.
The old man in his fast carLeaves Achilles lagging,The old man with his long gunOutshoots Ulysses’ bow,Nestor in his botched old ageRivals Ajax bragging,To Nestor’s honeyed courtshipCould Helen say “No”?Yet, ancient, since you borrowFrom youth the strength and speed,Seducing as an equalHis playmates in the night,He, robbed, assumes your sceptre,He overgoes your rede,And with his brown and lively hairsOut-prophesies your white.
The old man in his fast carLeaves Achilles lagging,The old man with his long gunOutshoots Ulysses’ bow,Nestor in his botched old ageRivals Ajax bragging,To Nestor’s honeyed courtshipCould Helen say “No”?
Yet, ancient, since you borrowFrom youth the strength and speed,Seducing as an equalHis playmates in the night,He, robbed, assumes your sceptre,He overgoes your rede,And with his brown and lively hairsOut-prophesies your white.
We strain our strings thus tight,Our voices pitch thus high,A song to inditeThat nevermore shall die.The Poet being divineAdmits no social sin,Spurring with wineAnd lust the Muse within.Finding no use at allIn arms or civic deeds,Perched on a wallFulfilling fancy’s needs.Let parents, children, wife,Be ghosts beside his art,Be this his lifeTo hug the snake to his heart.Sad souls, the more we stressThe advantage of our crown,So much the lessOur welcome by the Town,By the gross and rootling hogWho grunts nor lifts his head,By jealous dogOr old ass thistle-fed.By so much less their praise,By so much more our glory.Grim pride outweighsThe anguish of our story.We strain our strings thus tight,Our voices pitch thus high,To enforce our rightOver futurity.
We strain our strings thus tight,Our voices pitch thus high,A song to inditeThat nevermore shall die.The Poet being divineAdmits no social sin,Spurring with wineAnd lust the Muse within.Finding no use at allIn arms or civic deeds,Perched on a wallFulfilling fancy’s needs.Let parents, children, wife,Be ghosts beside his art,Be this his lifeTo hug the snake to his heart.Sad souls, the more we stressThe advantage of our crown,So much the lessOur welcome by the Town,By the gross and rootling hogWho grunts nor lifts his head,By jealous dogOr old ass thistle-fed.By so much less their praise,By so much more our glory.Grim pride outweighsThe anguish of our story.We strain our strings thus tight,Our voices pitch thus high,To enforce our rightOver futurity.
We strain our strings thus tight,Our voices pitch thus high,A song to inditeThat nevermore shall die.
The Poet being divineAdmits no social sin,Spurring with wineAnd lust the Muse within.
Finding no use at allIn arms or civic deeds,Perched on a wallFulfilling fancy’s needs.
Let parents, children, wife,Be ghosts beside his art,Be this his lifeTo hug the snake to his heart.
Sad souls, the more we stressThe advantage of our crown,So much the lessOur welcome by the Town,
By the gross and rootling hogWho grunts nor lifts his head,By jealous dogOr old ass thistle-fed.
By so much less their praise,By so much more our glory.Grim pride outweighsThe anguish of our story.
We strain our strings thus tight,Our voices pitch thus high,To enforce our rightOver futurity.
Here ranted Isaac’s elder son,The proud shag-breasted godless one,From whom observant Smooth-Cheek stoleBirthright, blessing, hunter’s soul.
Here ranted Isaac’s elder son,The proud shag-breasted godless one,From whom observant Smooth-Cheek stoleBirthright, blessing, hunter’s soul.
Here ranted Isaac’s elder son,The proud shag-breasted godless one,From whom observant Smooth-Cheek stoleBirthright, blessing, hunter’s soul.
The cottage damson laden as could beScowls at the Manor House magnolia treeThat year by year within its thoughtless powersYields flowers and leaves and flowers and leaves and flowers,While the Magnolia shudders as in fear,“Figurez-vous!two sackfuls every year!”
The cottage damson laden as could beScowls at the Manor House magnolia treeThat year by year within its thoughtless powersYields flowers and leaves and flowers and leaves and flowers,While the Magnolia shudders as in fear,“Figurez-vous!two sackfuls every year!”
The cottage damson laden as could beScowls at the Manor House magnolia treeThat year by year within its thoughtless powersYields flowers and leaves and flowers and leaves and flowers,While the Magnolia shudders as in fear,“Figurez-vous!two sackfuls every year!”
Dolon, analyst of souls,To the Graces hangs up hereHis shrimp-net rotting into holesAnd oozy from the infernal mere;He wreathes his gift around with cress,Lush harvest of the public cess.
Dolon, analyst of souls,To the Graces hangs up hereHis shrimp-net rotting into holesAnd oozy from the infernal mere;He wreathes his gift around with cress,Lush harvest of the public cess.
Dolon, analyst of souls,To the Graces hangs up hereHis shrimp-net rotting into holesAnd oozy from the infernal mere;He wreathes his gift around with cress,Lush harvest of the public cess.
TO MY COLLATERAL ANCESTOR, REV. R. GRAVES, THE FRIEND OF THE POET SHENSTONE AND AUTHOR OFTHE SPIRITUAL QUIXOTE: ON RECEIPT OF A PRESS-CUTTING INTENDED FOR HIM.
O friend of Shenstone, do you frownIn realms remote from meWhen Messrs Durrant send you downBy inadvertencyClippings identifying youWith some dim man in the moon,A Spiritual Quixote, true,But friend of S. Sassoon?
O friend of Shenstone, do you frownIn realms remote from meWhen Messrs Durrant send you downBy inadvertencyClippings identifying youWith some dim man in the moon,A Spiritual Quixote, true,But friend of S. Sassoon?
O friend of Shenstone, do you frownIn realms remote from meWhen Messrs Durrant send you downBy inadvertencyClippings identifying youWith some dim man in the moon,A Spiritual Quixote, true,But friend of S. Sassoon?
(Dedicated, without permission, to my friend P. C. Flowers)
“My front-lamp, constable? Why, man, the moon!My rear-lamp? Shining there ten yards behind me,Warm parlour lamplight ofThe Dish and Spoon!”But for all my fancy talk, they would have fined me,Had I not set a rather sly half-crownWinking under the rays of my front lamp:Goodwill towards men disturbed the official frown,My rear-light beckoned through the evening’s damp.
“My front-lamp, constable? Why, man, the moon!My rear-lamp? Shining there ten yards behind me,Warm parlour lamplight ofThe Dish and Spoon!”But for all my fancy talk, they would have fined me,Had I not set a rather sly half-crownWinking under the rays of my front lamp:Goodwill towards men disturbed the official frown,My rear-light beckoned through the evening’s damp.
“My front-lamp, constable? Why, man, the moon!My rear-lamp? Shining there ten yards behind me,Warm parlour lamplight ofThe Dish and Spoon!”But for all my fancy talk, they would have fined me,Had I not set a rather sly half-crownWinking under the rays of my front lamp:Goodwill towards men disturbed the official frown,My rear-light beckoned through the evening’s damp.
Though you read these, but understand not, curse not!Or though you read and understand, yet praise not!What poet weaves a better knot or worse knotUntangling which, your own lives you unbrace not?
Though you read these, but understand not, curse not!Or though you read and understand, yet praise not!What poet weaves a better knot or worse knotUntangling which, your own lives you unbrace not?
Though you read these, but understand not, curse not!Or though you read and understand, yet praise not!What poet weaves a better knot or worse knotUntangling which, your own lives you unbrace not?
The bearded rabbi, the meek friar,Linked by their ankles in one cell,Through joint distress of dungeon mireLearned each to love his neighbour well.When four years passed and five and six,When seven years brought them no release,The Jew embraced the crucifix,The friar assumed phylacteries.Then every Sunday, keeping score,And every Sabbath in this hymnThey reconciled an age-long warBetween the platter’s bowl and rim.Together.Man-like he lived, but God-like died,All hatred from His thought removed,Imperfect until crucified,In crucifixion well-beloved.The Friar.If they did wrong, He too did wrong,(For Love admits no contraries)In blind religion rooted strongBoth Jesus and the Pharisees.“Love all men as thyself,” said He.Said they, “Be just with man or dog,”“But only loathe a Pharisee,”“But crucify this demagogue.”He died forgiving on the TreeTo make amends for earlier spite,They raised him up their God to be,And black with black accomplished white.The Rabbi.When He again descends on manAs chief of Scribes and Pharisees,With loathing for the Publican,The maimed and halt His enemies,And when a not less formal fateThan Pilate’s justice and the Rood,His righteous angers expiateTo make men think Him wholly good,Then He again will have done wrong,If God be Love for every man,For lewd and lettered, weak and strong,For Pharisee or Publican,Together.But like a God He will have died,All hatred from His thought removed,Imperfect until crucified,In crucifixion well-beloved.
The bearded rabbi, the meek friar,Linked by their ankles in one cell,Through joint distress of dungeon mireLearned each to love his neighbour well.When four years passed and five and six,When seven years brought them no release,The Jew embraced the crucifix,The friar assumed phylacteries.Then every Sunday, keeping score,And every Sabbath in this hymnThey reconciled an age-long warBetween the platter’s bowl and rim.Together.Man-like he lived, but God-like died,All hatred from His thought removed,Imperfect until crucified,In crucifixion well-beloved.The Friar.If they did wrong, He too did wrong,(For Love admits no contraries)In blind religion rooted strongBoth Jesus and the Pharisees.“Love all men as thyself,” said He.Said they, “Be just with man or dog,”“But only loathe a Pharisee,”“But crucify this demagogue.”He died forgiving on the TreeTo make amends for earlier spite,They raised him up their God to be,And black with black accomplished white.The Rabbi.When He again descends on manAs chief of Scribes and Pharisees,With loathing for the Publican,The maimed and halt His enemies,And when a not less formal fateThan Pilate’s justice and the Rood,His righteous angers expiateTo make men think Him wholly good,Then He again will have done wrong,If God be Love for every man,For lewd and lettered, weak and strong,For Pharisee or Publican,Together.But like a God He will have died,All hatred from His thought removed,Imperfect until crucified,In crucifixion well-beloved.
The bearded rabbi, the meek friar,Linked by their ankles in one cell,Through joint distress of dungeon mireLearned each to love his neighbour well.
When four years passed and five and six,When seven years brought them no release,The Jew embraced the crucifix,The friar assumed phylacteries.
Then every Sunday, keeping score,And every Sabbath in this hymnThey reconciled an age-long warBetween the platter’s bowl and rim.
Together.
Man-like he lived, but God-like died,All hatred from His thought removed,Imperfect until crucified,In crucifixion well-beloved.
The Friar.
If they did wrong, He too did wrong,(For Love admits no contraries)In blind religion rooted strongBoth Jesus and the Pharisees.
“Love all men as thyself,” said He.Said they, “Be just with man or dog,”“But only loathe a Pharisee,”“But crucify this demagogue.”
He died forgiving on the TreeTo make amends for earlier spite,They raised him up their God to be,And black with black accomplished white.
The Rabbi.
When He again descends on manAs chief of Scribes and Pharisees,With loathing for the Publican,The maimed and halt His enemies,
And when a not less formal fateThan Pilate’s justice and the Rood,His righteous angers expiateTo make men think Him wholly good,
Then He again will have done wrong,If God be Love for every man,For lewd and lettered, weak and strong,For Pharisee or Publican,
Together.
But like a God He will have died,All hatred from His thought removed,Imperfect until crucified,In crucifixion well-beloved.
Of Love he sang, full-hearted one.But when the song was doneThe King demanded more,Ay, and commanded more.The boy found nothing for encore,Words, melodies, none:Ashamed the song’s glad rise and plaintive fallHad so charmed King and Queen and all.He sang the same verse once again,But urging less Love’s pain,With altered time and keyHe showed variety,Seemed to refresh the harmonyOf his only strain,So still the glad rise and the plaintive fallCould charm the King, the Queen, and all.He of his song then wearying ceased,But was not yet released;The Queen’s request wasMore,And her behest wasMore.He played of random notes some score,He found his rhymes at least—Then suddenly let his twangling harp down fallAnd fled in tears from King and Queen and all.
Of Love he sang, full-hearted one.But when the song was doneThe King demanded more,Ay, and commanded more.The boy found nothing for encore,Words, melodies, none:Ashamed the song’s glad rise and plaintive fallHad so charmed King and Queen and all.He sang the same verse once again,But urging less Love’s pain,With altered time and keyHe showed variety,Seemed to refresh the harmonyOf his only strain,So still the glad rise and the plaintive fallCould charm the King, the Queen, and all.He of his song then wearying ceased,But was not yet released;The Queen’s request wasMore,And her behest wasMore.He played of random notes some score,He found his rhymes at least—Then suddenly let his twangling harp down fallAnd fled in tears from King and Queen and all.
Of Love he sang, full-hearted one.But when the song was doneThe King demanded more,Ay, and commanded more.The boy found nothing for encore,Words, melodies, none:Ashamed the song’s glad rise and plaintive fallHad so charmed King and Queen and all.
He sang the same verse once again,But urging less Love’s pain,With altered time and keyHe showed variety,Seemed to refresh the harmonyOf his only strain,So still the glad rise and the plaintive fallCould charm the King, the Queen, and all.
He of his song then wearying ceased,But was not yet released;The Queen’s request wasMore,And her behest wasMore.He played of random notes some score,He found his rhymes at least—Then suddenly let his twangling harp down fallAnd fled in tears from King and Queen and all.
He suddenly, the page read as it turned,Died.The indignant eye discernedNo sense. “Good page, turn back,” it cried(Happily evermore was cheated).After these things he suddenly died,The truthful page repeated.“Turn back yon earlier pages, nine or ten,ToHim she lovedandHe alone of men.Now change the sentence, page!” But still it readHe suddenly died: they scarce had time to kiss.“Read on, ungentle reader,” the book said,“Resign your hopes to this.”The eye could not resign, restless in grief,But darting forward to a later leafFoundHim she lovedandHe alone of men.Oh, who this He was, being a second HeConfused the plan; the book spoke sternly then,“Read page by page and see!”
He suddenly, the page read as it turned,Died.The indignant eye discernedNo sense. “Good page, turn back,” it cried(Happily evermore was cheated).After these things he suddenly died,The truthful page repeated.“Turn back yon earlier pages, nine or ten,ToHim she lovedandHe alone of men.Now change the sentence, page!” But still it readHe suddenly died: they scarce had time to kiss.“Read on, ungentle reader,” the book said,“Resign your hopes to this.”The eye could not resign, restless in grief,But darting forward to a later leafFoundHim she lovedandHe alone of men.Oh, who this He was, being a second HeConfused the plan; the book spoke sternly then,“Read page by page and see!”
He suddenly, the page read as it turned,Died.The indignant eye discernedNo sense. “Good page, turn back,” it cried(Happily evermore was cheated).After these things he suddenly died,The truthful page repeated.
“Turn back yon earlier pages, nine or ten,ToHim she lovedandHe alone of men.Now change the sentence, page!” But still it readHe suddenly died: they scarce had time to kiss.“Read on, ungentle reader,” the book said,“Resign your hopes to this.”
The eye could not resign, restless in grief,But darting forward to a later leafFoundHim she lovedandHe alone of men.Oh, who this He was, being a second HeConfused the plan; the book spoke sternly then,“Read page by page and see!”
On the High Feast Day in that reverent spaceBetween the Sacrifice and the word of Grace,I, come to town with a merry-making throngTo pay my tithes and join in the season’s song,Closing my eyes, there prayed—and was hurried farBeyond what ages I know not, or what star,To a land of thought remote from the breastplate glintAnd the white bull’s blood that flows from the knife of flint,Then, in this movement, being not I but partIn the fellowship of the universal heart,10I sucked a strength from the primal fount of strength,I thought and worked omnipotence. At lengthHit in my high flight by some sorry thoughtBack to the sweat of the soil-bound I was caughtAnd asked in pique what enemy had worked this,What folly or anger thrust against my bliss?Then I grew aware of the savour of sandal-woodWith noise of a distant fluting, and one who stoodNudging my elbow breathed “Oh, miracle! See!”The folk gape wonder, urge tumultuously,20They fling them down on their faces every one,Some joyfully weep, others for anguish moan.Lo, the tall gilt image of God at the altar nicheWavers and stirs, we see his raiment twitch.Now he stands and signs benediction with his rod.The courtyard quakes, the fountains gush with blood.The whistling scurry and throb of spirit wingsDistresses man and child. Now a bird-voice sings,And a loud throat bellows, that every creature hears,A sign to himself he must lay aside his fears.30It babbles an antique tongue, and threatening, pleadsPrompt sacrifice and a care for priestly needs,Wholeness of heart, the putting away of wrath,A generous measure for wine, for oil, for cloth,A holding fast to the law that the Stones ordain,And the rites of the Temple watch that ye maintainLest fire and ashes down from the mountain rain!With expectance of goodly harvest and rain in SpringTo such as perform the will of the Jealous King.To his priestly servants hearken!The syllables die.40Now up from the congregation issues a sighAs of stopped breath slow released. But here stands oneWho has kept his feet though the others fell like stone,Who prays with outstretched palms, standing alone,To a God who is speechless, not to be known by touch,By sight, sound, scent. And I cry, “Not overmuchDo I love this juggling blasphemy, O High Priest.Or do you deny your part here? Then, at least,An honest citizen of this honest townMay preach these nightmare apparitions down,50These blundering, perfumed noises come to tellNo more than a priest-instructed folk knows well.Out, meddlesome Imps, whatever Powers you be,Break not true prayer between my God and me.”
On the High Feast Day in that reverent spaceBetween the Sacrifice and the word of Grace,I, come to town with a merry-making throngTo pay my tithes and join in the season’s song,Closing my eyes, there prayed—and was hurried farBeyond what ages I know not, or what star,To a land of thought remote from the breastplate glintAnd the white bull’s blood that flows from the knife of flint,Then, in this movement, being not I but partIn the fellowship of the universal heart,10I sucked a strength from the primal fount of strength,I thought and worked omnipotence. At lengthHit in my high flight by some sorry thoughtBack to the sweat of the soil-bound I was caughtAnd asked in pique what enemy had worked this,What folly or anger thrust against my bliss?Then I grew aware of the savour of sandal-woodWith noise of a distant fluting, and one who stoodNudging my elbow breathed “Oh, miracle! See!”The folk gape wonder, urge tumultuously,20They fling them down on their faces every one,Some joyfully weep, others for anguish moan.Lo, the tall gilt image of God at the altar nicheWavers and stirs, we see his raiment twitch.Now he stands and signs benediction with his rod.The courtyard quakes, the fountains gush with blood.The whistling scurry and throb of spirit wingsDistresses man and child. Now a bird-voice sings,And a loud throat bellows, that every creature hears,A sign to himself he must lay aside his fears.30It babbles an antique tongue, and threatening, pleadsPrompt sacrifice and a care for priestly needs,Wholeness of heart, the putting away of wrath,A generous measure for wine, for oil, for cloth,A holding fast to the law that the Stones ordain,And the rites of the Temple watch that ye maintainLest fire and ashes down from the mountain rain!With expectance of goodly harvest and rain in SpringTo such as perform the will of the Jealous King.To his priestly servants hearken!The syllables die.40Now up from the congregation issues a sighAs of stopped breath slow released. But here stands oneWho has kept his feet though the others fell like stone,Who prays with outstretched palms, standing alone,To a God who is speechless, not to be known by touch,By sight, sound, scent. And I cry, “Not overmuchDo I love this juggling blasphemy, O High Priest.Or do you deny your part here? Then, at least,An honest citizen of this honest townMay preach these nightmare apparitions down,50These blundering, perfumed noises come to tellNo more than a priest-instructed folk knows well.Out, meddlesome Imps, whatever Powers you be,Break not true prayer between my God and me.”
On the High Feast Day in that reverent spaceBetween the Sacrifice and the word of Grace,I, come to town with a merry-making throngTo pay my tithes and join in the season’s song,Closing my eyes, there prayed—and was hurried farBeyond what ages I know not, or what star,To a land of thought remote from the breastplate glintAnd the white bull’s blood that flows from the knife of flint,Then, in this movement, being not I but partIn the fellowship of the universal heart,10I sucked a strength from the primal fount of strength,I thought and worked omnipotence. At lengthHit in my high flight by some sorry thoughtBack to the sweat of the soil-bound I was caughtAnd asked in pique what enemy had worked this,What folly or anger thrust against my bliss?Then I grew aware of the savour of sandal-woodWith noise of a distant fluting, and one who stoodNudging my elbow breathed “Oh, miracle! See!”The folk gape wonder, urge tumultuously,20They fling them down on their faces every one,Some joyfully weep, others for anguish moan.Lo, the tall gilt image of God at the altar nicheWavers and stirs, we see his raiment twitch.Now he stands and signs benediction with his rod.The courtyard quakes, the fountains gush with blood.The whistling scurry and throb of spirit wingsDistresses man and child. Now a bird-voice sings,And a loud throat bellows, that every creature hears,A sign to himself he must lay aside his fears.30It babbles an antique tongue, and threatening, pleadsPrompt sacrifice and a care for priestly needs,Wholeness of heart, the putting away of wrath,A generous measure for wine, for oil, for cloth,A holding fast to the law that the Stones ordain,And the rites of the Temple watch that ye maintainLest fire and ashes down from the mountain rain!With expectance of goodly harvest and rain in SpringTo such as perform the will of the Jealous King.To his priestly servants hearken!The syllables die.40Now up from the congregation issues a sighAs of stopped breath slow released. But here stands oneWho has kept his feet though the others fell like stone,Who prays with outstretched palms, standing alone,To a God who is speechless, not to be known by touch,By sight, sound, scent. And I cry, “Not overmuchDo I love this juggling blasphemy, O High Priest.Or do you deny your part here? Then, at least,An honest citizen of this honest townMay preach these nightmare apparitions down,50These blundering, perfumed noises come to tellNo more than a priest-instructed folk knows well.Out, meddlesome Imps, whatever Powers you be,Break not true prayer between my God and me.”
You turn the unsmitten other cheek,In silence welcoming God’s grace,Disdaining, though they scourge, to speak,Smiling forgiveness face to face.You plunge your arms in tyrant flame,From ravening beasts you do not fly,Calling aloud on one sweet Name,Hosannah-singing till you die.So angered by your undefeat,Revenge through Christ they meditate,Disciples at the bishop’s feetThey learn this newer sort of hate,This unresisting meek assaultOn furious foe or stubborn friend,This virtue purged of every faultBy furtherance of the martyr’s end,This baffling stroke of naked pride,When satires fail and curses failTo pierce the justice’s tough hide,To abash the cynics of the jail.Oh, not less violent, not less keenAnd barbèd more than murder’s blade!“The brook,” you sigh, “that washes clean,The flower of love that will not fade!”
You turn the unsmitten other cheek,In silence welcoming God’s grace,Disdaining, though they scourge, to speak,Smiling forgiveness face to face.You plunge your arms in tyrant flame,From ravening beasts you do not fly,Calling aloud on one sweet Name,Hosannah-singing till you die.So angered by your undefeat,Revenge through Christ they meditate,Disciples at the bishop’s feetThey learn this newer sort of hate,This unresisting meek assaultOn furious foe or stubborn friend,This virtue purged of every faultBy furtherance of the martyr’s end,This baffling stroke of naked pride,When satires fail and curses failTo pierce the justice’s tough hide,To abash the cynics of the jail.Oh, not less violent, not less keenAnd barbèd more than murder’s blade!“The brook,” you sigh, “that washes clean,The flower of love that will not fade!”
You turn the unsmitten other cheek,In silence welcoming God’s grace,Disdaining, though they scourge, to speak,Smiling forgiveness face to face.
You plunge your arms in tyrant flame,From ravening beasts you do not fly,Calling aloud on one sweet Name,Hosannah-singing till you die.
So angered by your undefeat,Revenge through Christ they meditate,Disciples at the bishop’s feetThey learn this newer sort of hate,
This unresisting meek assaultOn furious foe or stubborn friend,This virtue purged of every faultBy furtherance of the martyr’s end,
This baffling stroke of naked pride,When satires fail and curses failTo pierce the justice’s tough hide,To abash the cynics of the jail.
Oh, not less violent, not less keenAnd barbèd more than murder’s blade!“The brook,” you sigh, “that washes clean,The flower of love that will not fade!”
The dewdrop carries in its eyeSnowdon and Hebog, sea and sky,Twelve lakes at least, woods, rivers, moors,And half a county’s out-of-doors:Trembling beneath a wind-flower’s shieldIn this remote and rocky field.But why should man in God’s Name stressThe dewdrop’s inconspicuousnessWhen to lakes, woods, the estuary,Hebog and Snowdon, sky and sea,This dewdrop falling from its leafCan spread amazement near to grief,As it were a world distinct in mouldLost with its beauty ages old?
The dewdrop carries in its eyeSnowdon and Hebog, sea and sky,Twelve lakes at least, woods, rivers, moors,And half a county’s out-of-doors:Trembling beneath a wind-flower’s shieldIn this remote and rocky field.But why should man in God’s Name stressThe dewdrop’s inconspicuousnessWhen to lakes, woods, the estuary,Hebog and Snowdon, sky and sea,This dewdrop falling from its leafCan spread amazement near to grief,As it were a world distinct in mouldLost with its beauty ages old?
The dewdrop carries in its eyeSnowdon and Hebog, sea and sky,Twelve lakes at least, woods, rivers, moors,And half a county’s out-of-doors:Trembling beneath a wind-flower’s shieldIn this remote and rocky field.
But why should man in God’s Name stressThe dewdrop’s inconspicuousnessWhen to lakes, woods, the estuary,Hebog and Snowdon, sky and sea,This dewdrop falling from its leafCan spread amazement near to grief,As it were a world distinct in mouldLost with its beauty ages old?
The hunter to the husbandmanPays tribute since our love began,And to love-loyalty dedicatesThe phantom kills he meditates.Let me embrace, embracing you,Beauty of other shape and hue,Odd glinting graces of which noneShone more than candle to your sun,Your well-kissed hand was beckoning meIn unfamiliar imagery—Smile your forgiveness; each bright ghostDives in love’s glory and is lost,Yielding your comprehensive prideA homage, even to suicide.
The hunter to the husbandmanPays tribute since our love began,And to love-loyalty dedicatesThe phantom kills he meditates.Let me embrace, embracing you,Beauty of other shape and hue,Odd glinting graces of which noneShone more than candle to your sun,Your well-kissed hand was beckoning meIn unfamiliar imagery—Smile your forgiveness; each bright ghostDives in love’s glory and is lost,Yielding your comprehensive prideA homage, even to suicide.
The hunter to the husbandmanPays tribute since our love began,And to love-loyalty dedicatesThe phantom kills he meditates.Let me embrace, embracing you,Beauty of other shape and hue,Odd glinting graces of which noneShone more than candle to your sun,Your well-kissed hand was beckoning meIn unfamiliar imagery—Smile your forgiveness; each bright ghostDives in love’s glory and is lost,Yielding your comprehensive prideA homage, even to suicide.
Made and Printed in Great Britain. Richard Clay & Sons, Ltd.Printers, Bungay, Suffolk.