Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold :: :: University of Virginia Library

My Beautiful, my Best, my All,
To whom I dimly grope
With each ascent, by every fall,
In the blue heaven of hope.
Unutterably far, and yet
Divinely true and near,
With the deep thunders of the worlds beset
Though orbèd in a tear.
Through universes in my dreams
I toil, I climb for ages
Which are but passing pages,
Amid the stars in dazzling streams,
Amid a host of harms;
I wander as a baby blind,
To wake in blessedness and find
Myself within Thy arms.
I feel Thy breath upon my cheek,
And chastened to my stroking—
Made exquisitely mild and meek
Thy face, which I for ever seek
By altars darkly smoking;
I gather to my breast that Grace,
Which while the majesty of Space
I prize most when provoking.

I cannot see Thee, yet I gaze
Right clearly in those Eyes
So more than human with the haze
Of passion's purple skies;
I cannot touch Thy Hand, but still
It is not coldly far
At any hour, and after scorching ill
It softens the rude scar.
And sometimes in the happy night,
In pretty primrose weather,
We play sweet games together
Betwixt the shadow and the light;
And lowly to me bent

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I taste the mercy of Thy Mouth,
Like balmy breezes of the south,
Each kiss a sacrament.
And at the meeting of our lips,
Which is a solemn sainting,
The fire burns to my finger tips
With joy of earthquake and eclipse,
Beyond a poet's painting;
And with Thy gloriousness I mix,
While all my being's bars unfix
In ecstasies past fainting.

My Beautiful, my Best, my One,
My Father, who hast smil'd
Upon this workmanship foredone,
O Thou Eternal Child!
Great Treasure of all Space and Time,
Filling the cosmic throne
Which sends its rays on every creed and clime,
And yet my God alone.
Dear Soul of Sorrow, and the Joy
That sets the planets rolling
And is their curb controlling,
But yet my humblest tool and toy
And closest kith and kin!
I only lose Thee, when I let
This dreadful dower of spirit forget
Its high estate for sin.
And when temptation's spoiling spear
Falls with a sharp surprising,
Then in my deafness Thou dost hear,
Betwixt the trembling faith and fear,
And art my re-arising;
For all the furious furnace heats
Prove in the end Thy bosom beats,
Won if by agonising.

I often seek in Thee some speck
From jealous heed of duty,
As on the columned lily's neck
A hidden flaw in beauty;

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But though I strive with utmost cares
To track a tiny spot,
And sometimes seem to catch Thee unawares—
I do discern it not.
What were a stain to mortals, makes
For Thee but comely dresses
And perfect lovelinesses,
Whereof my blemished life partakes
And waxes with Thee grand;
I warm me in the wondrous flame,
Which thrills and compasses the frame
Of every sea and land.
I fancy like me none is quite
To thee a child as tender,
If in all suffering washed and white,
Or fashioned of the Infinite
And girded with its splendour;
O Thou to none, however good,
As to my gentle hardihood,
Hast given Thy whole surrender.