The Poems of Alice Meynell | ||
139
CHRISTMAS NIGHT
“IF I CANNOT SEE THEE PRESENT I WILL MOURN
THEE ABSENT, FOR THIS ALSO IS A PROOF OF LOVE”
Thomas à Kempis
We do not find Him on the difficult earth,
In surging human-kind,
In wayside death or accidental birth,
Or in the “march of mind.”
In surging human-kind,
In wayside death or accidental birth,
Or in the “march of mind.”
Nature, her nests, her prey, the fed, the caught,
Hide Him so well, so well,
His steadfast secret there seems to our thought
Life's saddest miracle.
Hide Him so well, so well,
His steadfast secret there seems to our thought
Life's saddest miracle.
He's but conjectured in man's happiness,
Suspected in man's tears,
Or lurks beyond the long, discouraged guess,
Grown fainter through the years.
Suspected in man's tears,
Or lurks beyond the long, discouraged guess,
Grown fainter through the years.
But absent, absent now? Ah, what is this,
Near as in child-birth bed,
Laid on our sorrowful hearts, close to a kiss?
A homeless childish head.
Near as in child-birth bed,
Laid on our sorrowful hearts, close to a kiss?
A homeless childish head.
The Poems of Alice Meynell | ||