 | Forest Songs and Other Poems |  |
59
THE MODERN GETHSEMANE.
1.
No, I'm no god, alas! Christ or Prometheus—What boots my anguish? The blood of my passion
Works no redemption. Ah! wearied with sorrow,
Pale and reproachful, ye poor and opprest ones,
With sullen eyes will ye wither my roses,
Passing me moaning?
2.
Call you these roses? Nay, here be great blood-dropsBlown into flowers—see! If this be a garden,
Name it Gethsemane. Still, ye opprest ones,
With weary eyes will ye pass by my roses?
3.
Is it my fault that my blood brings no healing?Think ye my anguish the less, being little,
Dull, unheroic; my mountain of passion
This poor, small garden? What look ye to me for?
60
4.
Come ye for grapes filled with wine of redemption,Holy, newbirthful, the blood eucharistic
Of a great Lamb slain? Nay, I'm but a small one—
Sad as your eyes as ye pass by my roses.
5.
Yet, even for me, 'mid the clouds of some dawning,Pale, like the ghost of Life's babe, tranquil, terrible,
I may see standing the angel of agony,
With new, strange chalice—shall I not drink it?
6.
Ah! what avails it? The blood of my passion,What can it purchase? When, six long hours hanging,
Loud, with rent heart, I would cry, “It is finished!”
Were the world saved? I, alas! am no Saviour.
7.
I would hang twelve, though, for my little world's sake,I would hang twelve, would my Father in Heaven
Heal but Love's wounds, and I felt through the death-swoon
There at my cross-foot the Magdalen standing,
Kissing the blood from my feet, loving, weeping,
Beautiful, with long hair.
| Forest Songs and Other Poems | |