Mystic Trees :: :: University of Virginia Library

Cuckoo, thou comest unawares,
As with a question to my prayers;
Full am I of my soul's annoy—
And thou, indifferent in joy,
Dost toss thy voice as if a ball,
Dost chase, and fling and let it fall.
Tempted am I to thy free-faring:
Cuckoo, but there is no comparing!
The Apple hung upon the bough
When, renegade from Eden, thou
To thy freebooter's life broke loose.
My teeth have pressed against the juice,
The foaming juice of sin's delight.
Christ my offences doth requite;
He died upon the Cross for these—
To win back my Hesperides:
And I remain upon my knees.

A VERT SUNDAY

These are the pastures green,
And this the pleasaunce is;
The Shepherd here is seen
Without His offices.

He doth not shew the way:
With hands between His knees,
He sitteth down to pray—
The sheep rove as they please.

What fountains of pure face,
What streaks of pasture rare
They find in hiding-place!
The Shepherd is not there.

They drink of many a brook
Of which He hath not told;
Then gather to the crook,
Then gather to the fold.

THE BELOVED

I

Father, Thou delightest
In Thy Belovèd One:
And Thou invitest,
Calling us to Thy delight.

II

Ave, our King!
To Thee, we bring,
We offer Thy Belovèd One;
Yea, we delight in Him,
Till our eyes brim.

[He whose lips have touched Christ's lips]

He whose lips have touched Christ's lips
Writeth the Apocalypse.

In deep herbage, by a stream,
He beholds the Heavenly Dream.

Lo, he groweth very old,
But his love hath ne'er grown cold!

Only, since his eyes are dim,
Christ hath sent to comfort him

Vision of the very Word
That in Galilee he heard:

And to him whose day declineth
Glory of the Sun that shineth,

Not as when on Earth He trod—
Very God of Very God.

From the sweet mouth of the Lord
There proceedeth now a sword,

Wars of men and angels mingle,
And his ears with trumpets tingle.

Kings are slain and kings arise
In the passing of those skies.

There is left a bloody trail
There is left a rolling wail.

And the day sinks to its brink
And the marshalled spirits sink.

Brown upon the glistened earth,
He perceives another birth.

Very golden is the stream;
And he dreams another dream.

He hath written it all down;
And the sun is going down.

Homeward he must now to sup,
And he rolls the parchment up.

Only, as he ties the bands,
Folding quietly his hands,

To himself, in peace, he saith,
Will it be before my death?

And he prayeth, turning home,
Even so, Lord Jesus, come!

At the door he pondereth,
Will it be before my death?

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE

It is the brows, the infinite, soft confusing
Of wave on wave and lovely current there;
It is the brows, the marge of the soft hair
In reedy level; or it is the eyes
Where plumes of sea-birds wrangle with the skies;
It is the mouth where bitter shadow lies,
Where in the twilight there are nymphs that mourn
As at the birth of Christ and grow forlorn—
O face, take heed what freedom you are losing!
This cowl is as a cage
For such soft passion's rage;
And, when the temperance of youth is gone,
You will be terrible to look upon.

BAPTISM

A babe, still, rosy from the Cherubim,
Set solid by his mother on my knee!
O lovelier the vision that I see,
The oscillating light that sits with him!

O fresh as the first fig-leaf Eden sprung,
Warm as the egg that from the dove we part—
Something thou lackest ... drops of chrism clung
About thee, and God's charms wrapt round thy heart.

O hidden Sacrament, O second Birth,
O honey-breeding Secret in the hive,
Stealing as Ver by inches through the earth,
Spurring each instinct mightily alive!

Shall they deprive thee of this lovely thing?
O Babe, weep with me for thy christening!

THE ONLY ONE

I think of her
As the fastness of hepatica,
The little fort of blue that held itself so fine,
So lightsome and so sure,
In that garden-plot of mine where the snow spread:
I cannot take anything else, or instead.
I think of her
By the plot where I miss my hepatica.

BEFORE REQUIEM

Bees from loveliest fields of light,
Make our darksome candles bright!
From the balsam beds ye come
To build glory round the tomb.

Angels from the summer ye,
Angels to our Mystery,
That these golden rods, that stand
Sentry to our dead, have planned!

Pause upon us; stay from hell
Our poor souls with hydromel;
Work us wax so fine, its flame
Be of God's the very name.

Bees, O autumn bees, that fled
Home with tribute for our dead,
Very gentle be your doom,
Dying on the ivy-bloom!

THE HOMAGE OF DEATH

Tu Nobis, Victor Rex, Miserere

I

How willingly
I yield to Thee
This very dust!
My body—that was not enough!
Fair was it as a silken stuff,
Or as a spice, or gold,
Fair to behold.

II

Beloved, I give Thee all
This Adam's Fall,
This my desert—
Thy Father would not let Thee see
Corruption, but I give it Thee.
Behold me thus abhorred,
My penance, Lord!

III

A handful in Thy Hand,
As if of fair, white sand,
Thou wroughtest me;
Clean was I for a little while ...
This dust is of another style;
Its fumes, most vile of sin
To stink begin.

IV

To yield Thee up my breath
Were not enough of death;
Let me deform!
Let me do penance for my sin,
In death's habiliments most thin,
A skeleton, and worse,
Under the curse.

V

As roots of roses must
Be mingled in their dust
With very blood,
Empty Thy Wounds—pour down the red,
Sweet Blood on me of Thy Godhead;
Then gloriously create,
And make me great.

VI

O Victor King, and when
Thou raisest me again,
For me no fame:
Just white amid the whiter souls,
Efface me 'mid the shining stoles,
Lost in a lovely brood,
And multitude:

VII

My soul even as the Maid
Cophetua arrayed
In samite fine;
And set her by him on his throne.
O Christ, what homage can atone
For this caprice in Thee
To worship me?

IN DIE OBITUS

In God's Presence stands the soul,
And there breaks on it the Whole—
Lo, a vision that upbraids
Of a face in festival!
Lo, a vision to appal
As from the desire it fades!

Shut, imprisoned very far,
As the Afric people are
From communicating things,
Now the soul imprisoned is;
And it fevers for its bliss
From a solitude that stings.

Domine, there is no sound
Passes that impoverished ground—
Breathing of no kine hard by.
Lord, but there must be a breath!
From the earth that travaileth
Riseth up a bitter cry—
Breathing of no kine hard by
Where the patient spirits lie;
But our prayers that do not cease,
But the sacrifice allowed,
But the thurible in cloud
Riseth to them for their peace.

PRAYER FOR THE LAPSED

Not for the lapsed, in storm before the Cross,
I make petition. As in loss
Of some loved animal we feel the Master's pain—
Give the Beloved His creatures back again!

Not that, blaspheming, they in Hell blaspheme,
Making no motion of God's dream,
But that this Head fighteth His thorns in vain—
Give the Beloved His creatures back again!

I pray not for their arid lips accurst—
For the assuaging of God's thirst:
As one that for his dearest doth complain
He calleth, and He calleth yet again!

“AND BLOODY SWEAT”

I have heard one dying,
Not in sorrow, or in sighing,
In a misery of moan on moan,
In an anguish to be laid so lone,
With the blood that stoppeth slow,
With the cold, cold dark a-blow,
With the flesh that murmureth
Currish little cries of death:
I have heard one dying so ...
To Gethsemane I go—
Christ, of God Thy sweat did win
Pardon for this rebel sin.
Sprinkle with these precious drops
Till the accusation stops;
And Thou openest Wound on Wound
For this soul of Thy compassion swooned.

100

TOO LATE

“O virgins, very lovely in your troop,
O Virgins very lovely, very white,
How is it that your lilies droop?
How is it that the lamps you bear are not alight?

Why are you bending downward from the hill?
Bright is it on the hill as for a feast.”
Trembling they sped as to fulfil
Some grievous prophecy; nor heeded me the least.

Downward they passed ... Oh, they were very fair,
But stricken as the frosted leaves to doom!
Their eyes I saw ... Bright with despair
Their eyes, and very lamps to light them to their doom.

Full were their looks of love and sorrowing
As they passed by me, shaking out a spell
Of sighs, of balms. And is it such a thing
Can be, that they were hurrying to Hell?

101

THE ROSARY OF BLOOD

Joyful Mysteries

I

Virgin blood that doth an instant fail,
As God draweth near her to prevail.

II

Through the hilly-lands she journeyeth strong:
From her blood leapeth a mountain-song.

III

To her glorious Babe she does not sing:
Back her blood falls for His welcoming.

IV

Simeon draws near her with a sword:
And on Calvary her blood is poured.

V

She hath sought Him; He forbids the claim,
And invokes in her His Father's name—
With blood recollected, and still breath
She enticeth Him to Nazareth.

102

THE ROSARY OF BLOOD

Sorrowful Mysteries

I

IN the garden, sorrowful to death,
On Thy brow a blood that blossometh.

II

By the column Thou are fiercely scourged,
And the mad, recoiling current urged.

III

Crown of thorns so planted on Thy head
We behold a crown of blood instead.

IV

Now Thy bitter Cross they lay on Thee—
With Thy blood Thou dost bedew the Tree.

V

Nails that rivet to the Cross so slow,
Force the sluices of the blood to flow;
From Thy Heart a ready cistern fills.
Blood and water the centurion spills.

103

THE ROSARY OF BLOOD

Glorious Mysteries

I

Christ for us is risen. Flesh and blood
He brings with Him as no spirit could.

II

And, ascending, He restores to mirth
Abel's blood that cried up from the earth.

III

Lo, His Spirit falleth on a host!
Of one blood the Medes and Parthians boast.

IV

Mary's tomb! The stark blood liquefies,
And in lovely blossom seeks the skies.

V

Pure St. Dominic in vision sees
Mary, who believed the mysteries,
With her Virgin blood fulfilling these,
Crowned of Christ in heaven, with rosaries.

104

HOLY WEEK

The Gloriae are dimming one by one;
The Gloriae are gone:
Beloved, and I am fallen from Thy praise,
Following the Church's ways.
Voice after voice, as leaves in Autumn falling,
I have watched hush themselves and die—
Nor antiphon, nor cry,
Nor sweet recalling.

For this the Angels droop their wings together,
And walk as if they could not fly,
Walk heavily, as if forever
God in His glory were put by:
And one, with tears hanging upon his face,
Unto his Lord doth pace.

105

A ROSARY OF THE STAR

I

In the Garden there is set a star
Over where the sleepers are,
Over where the lustrous olives hang;
And He sees it, looking up
From the drinking of that Cup.

II

At the column, lo, the star is gone,
For the eyes are beat upon
By wild rays that dance before and burn;
And He suffers in the daze,
Dreaming on God's ordered maze.

III

At the mocking while the soldiers stand,
Blindfold Him on either hand,
And the lovely hair with thorns enlock,
To His eyes the Saints are set
Close in starry coronet.

IV

With the Cross to Golgotha He goes;
Clear the star before Him shows,
Shining, resting on the skull-like mound,
And, beholding it, He saith
Gentle words and comforteth.

106

V

Now they nail Him to the Cross with words—
Darkness is above of clanging birds,
Birds of prey that clamour for His flesh;
And, between the wings, a space
Where a star shines in his place.

107

TRULY THIS WAS THE SON OF GOD

I

O hands in benediction spread,
O Hands that, loving, broke the Bread,
O Hands that bleed for us instead!

II

O Bundle of these transfixed feet,
So joined, through each one nail doth beat,
O knot of Love, O Posy sweet!

III

And this, the sluice within thy side,
To a hidden river openeth wide,
With fruiting trees on either side.

108

THE OLIVE-SHOOT

It is a summer Message, plucked from Holy Rood;
There the Dove has plucked an olive-shoot,
For the Tree grows stout and good,
With the waves swaying round it, calming at its foot.

Young, tender, fast in burgeon on its little mound,
From the water-fields the Tree springs green,
And the Dove espies and doth not count
The Waste of the interminable waves between:

But snaps the live twig, lays it in our lap for mirth;
We bosom it and the Dove takes wing,
Or in the air, or from a nest on earth,
Of Holy Rood through all the days to sing.

109

PASCHAL PENANCE

I

Come, let us sing these plaintive litanies,
Come, let us pass in penitence consenting,
And sing lamenting
Among the budding trees.
The rain is stirring among the beans, how soft!
We offend God very oft....
Come, for our tears alone can give Him ease!

II

Eden-spring He spreads before His fallen—
Come to the flowering-place of His sorrowing!
He will do a thing—
Die on the cross for men:
His blood drops down on their heads as they pass,
On their heads as they pass—
On the white, little flocks of the cyclamen.

III

Let us weep the lovely world we have undone;
Come, let us weep in the apple-orchard!
God's justice lies at His Heart too hard—
It will melt in the sun:
Soft and warm and full of deep perfume our sighing;
For our God is dying;
Broken His Heart, and the way of our pardon won.

110

IV

Penance! Ah, now let us be prodigal
In tears—as the hawthorn-boughs are lading,
And their roses braiding!
God in the midst of all
Shedding His Blood for us, shedding drop by drop.
Surely our tears shall not stop—
Our prayers rise up from our sins, as they appal.

V

No sorrow is like Thy sorrow—that we see!
Patient, and very long and slow be our praying,
As we pass a-maying
By Thy three hours' Agony.
Till we pause at the Cross to compassionate
Thee, the grief of Thy estate,
Nor cease our dirge, till Thy death comes over Thee.

VI

What we have done, very well have we known,
We the vilest beneath the sun now living;
Hell our desert, Thou giving
Place for us by Thy throne:
Come, let us draw Thee down and bury Thee
In a garden, under this Cedar-tree,
And make for our God fresh memory.

111

OF THE ASSUMPTION OF OUR BLESSED LADY

I

We are sinful, we corruptible,
And our bodies must go down to hell.

II

But our Lady never knew a stain;
Simply she must fly to God again.

III

This is clear and consequent,
And the ground of our content.

IV

Jesu, rising up at matin time,
To his Mother's bower at once did climb,
That together they might read their prime.

V

We believe because there is no word;
In our very hearts it is averred.

VI

Mary died: at dawn of the third Day,
Jesu came, and took her as she lay.

112

VII

We believe because there is no word;
From our very hearts it is averred.

VIII

Silence bindeth each Evangelist;
We are sure that Son His Mother kissed.

IX

For the folk hath knowledge of it all;
Thus with Love it must befall.

X

And to Popes and marvelled Kings
They bring rumour of these things—

XI

We believe because there is no word;
Of our very hearts it is averred.

XII

On our glorious Queen by faith we look,
And we sing her, singing from no book.

113

[O lamb of God, our Light, of fleece how luminous!]

O lamb of God, our Light, of fleece how luminous!
If speech would come, as water-lilies rise
From the deep founts and offer sacrifice,
Then might I hope
In majesty of many a trope
To open unto man the glorious Sign
How Thou the Lamb even as a lamp dost shine.

White must Thou be that we may recognise
Thou art the Host, and there must be
In Thy appearing marks of Calvary:
But deep in thought, untainted by event.
Even as from Thy Father's Bosom sent,
Thou must be manifest. The great “I am”
Shines through prevailing fleeces, Abel's Lamb.

114

BIBE, DOMINE!

Rachel Dreams by the Well

Something there is that on my knees I sink ...
A stranger that beseecheth me,
Stops as an angel that beseecheth me.
“Domine, drink!
Yea, and thy camels, all the weary bands!”
The caravans draw on from distant lands;
From sands innumerable I quench their thirst.
... Deeper I draw ... Behold, a Form accurst!
One hanging on a Tree parteth His lips.
As I had borne Him, I must damp His lips!
It seems there is between our souls a law—
I am excluded from Him as I draw:
He dies athirst ... The camels are at hand,
And speech there is of wooing and of claim:
I hear of jewels and a bridegroom's name:
One comes, they say, from far to marry me.
I bow at the well's brink,
Giving his servant drink ...
Again that sore-polluted One I see,
Moving pale lips to me.
“O my Beloved, askest Thou drink of me?
Drink, Domine!”

115

A DREAMER

“Ecce Somniator venit: venite, occidamus eum!”

Behold this Dreamer in His golden locks;
Murmuring is He and murmuring of His flocks;
Yea, murmuring of the bowing wheat in shocks!

O lovely Dreamer, what can be Thy dream?
Full of an idle pity Thou dost seem,
Jesus, and of an arrogant, wild theme.

How!—Dost Thou ask that we should worship Thee?
O Wanderer through the fields, how should this be?
What hast Thou done who step'st so wearily?

Loved art Thou of Thy Father? He is great,
Thou say'st, and He confirms Thee in Thy state.
Were it not better we should kill Thee straight,

Before of Thy fair dream we are undone?
For it is truth Thou speak'st: we are Thy sun,
Thy moon, Thy circling stars, O Worshipt One!

116

Come let us bind Thee, take from Thee Thy crook,
And murder Thee, Beloved, in some wild nook!
It is this dream in Thee we cannot brook.

We bind, we cast Thee down into a pit;
We know not what we do: it is most fit—
Thou hast a dream—that Thou interpret it.

117

A MOTHER OF BETHLEHEM IN JUDA

They are all dead ... I am sitting by a well.
They are all dead! More women are coming up,
Down the hill and up the stony way;
Not one but her hair is grey.
They have murdered our sons because of an ancient song.
Our village street is long,
And the sun lies there,
And the mourners are not there,
And the day is long.

They have murdered our sons up to two years old;
They have murdered our sons for a word fore-told
That a King should spring ...
But every one of our sons was a king!
They are all dead; I am sitting by the well.

They rise up each with a pot on her head:
They will not be comforted ...
With water they will not wash their dead;
The milk on their breasts is spread;
They are parched to drink at the well ...
Am I one of them?
I will draw for them,
The Mothers of Bethlehem.

118

IN PRISON

From first to last I knew I must decrease:
This in the Wilderness hath been my peace.
Now in my cell He hath deserted me ...
I wonder, is He Christ—can it be He?

I have sent messengers to ask Him plain
Is He the Christ? Before they come again
I see Him on the road ... I am sufficed!
He is the Lamb of God, He is the Christ.

I pointed others to Him and they went;
I was deserted, yet in heart content:
Now He deserts me, as His pleasure is—
His pleasure, stricter than His promises.

So bold I spoke to sinners of the axe,
Who am just now a bit of smoking flax—
He would but quench me if I saw Him nigh
... Far off let Him abide, and I will die!

119

QUI RENOVAT JUVENTUTEM MEAM

Mark me grow young again,
Grow young enough to die,
That, in a joy unseared of pain,
I may my Lover, loved, attain,
With that fresh sigh
Eternity
Gives to the young to breathe about the heart,
Until their trust in youth-time shall depart.

Let me be young as when
To die was past my thought:
And earth with straight, immortal men,
And woman deathless to my ken,
Cast fear to naught!
Let Faith be fraught,
My Bridegroom, with such gallant love, its range
Simply surpasses every halt of change!

Let me come to Thee young,
When Thou dost challenge Come!
With all my marvelling dreams unsung,
Their promise by first passion stung,
Though chary, dumb ...
Thou callest Come!
Let me rush to Thee when I pass,
Keen as a child across the grass!

120

ST. MARY MAGDALEN'S SAILING

I

Very lovely art thou on thy craft,
That hath neither sail nor oar,
Nor of any food a store.
Lovely art thou on thy craft!

II

Lovely art thou on thy craft!
Mary Magdalen, no fear,
He who rules the winds is near,
Jesus Christ is sleeping aft.

III

Lovely art thou on thy craft!
And thou art not starved in mien;
Thou art catered for, a queen;
Thou of richest wine hast quaffed.

IV

To Provence now thou dost waft—
Preachest at Marseilles awhile—
Preaching is not in thy style.
Oh, for solitude a draught!

V

Christ doth lift thee up, and waft
Softly to a mountain-cave,
There thou prayest, wild and brave,
And the people hold thee daft.

121

VI

Lovelier than on thy craft
Art thou on thy mountain-stone,
For us, sinners, making moan;
Lovelier than on thy craft.

VII

Pray for us that we may be
To the mountain-heights set free!
Mary Magdalen, most sweet,
Pray that we may kiss His Feet!

122

FEAST OF ST. AGNES

Oh, see the child, as she doth stand,
Glowing beneath her Bridegroom's hand!
With coruscating buds
How gloriously He studs
That fair green wreath to lay upon her head.
How her right hand He clasps,
And rigorously hasps,
And with strange marks and token seals the child.
Then of a love more wild,
How reckless He approaches
With immense necklaces and brooches!
To martyrdom He doth molest
With heavy gems that tender breast;
And from the little ear, a-curl,
Perpendeth an enormous pearl.

In that ear His music soundeth:
But to Him her lip aboundeth,
And the wren-song of her lip
Is of lovely fellowship.

123

SONG

[Playmates, on my head, behold]

Playmates, on my head, behold,
He hath set a crown of gold!
Feel them, stone by stone,
These jewels—they are all my own.
He hath decked me with flowers of spring;
He hath set on my hand a ring;
To me as a Bridegroom He speaks,
And His Blood is red on my cheeks.

124

[Lovely, purgatorial blooms]

Lovely, purgatorial blooms
Growing on the sides of tombs,
Lest our lips fall from their use—
Lovely things of Ursula,
Christ's refreshing fall on her!
Kalemire must be blest,
And his spirit fill with rest;
Equal grace there sure must be
For his sister Hilary;
And for Venus—“Jesus, pray
That there fall no shadow grey
On our Venus!”—Lovely blooms,
Growing on the sides of tombs,
Lest our lips fall to disuse!

125

THE BLESSED JULIANA.

Animarum Cibus.

As often as I prayed
There rose upon my heart a moon
Most beautiful,
And at the full,
Save for one hollow in its face that specked.
I prayed God bring it to perfection soon!

For burthen of two years
I bore that moon of ragged face
In prayer profound
To make it round;
It came to me each time I said my prayers;
And I watched on and wished the vision from its place.

I thought “A Demon's mask!”
—In terror at the spectre swooned:
More firm it stood
In flesh and blood,
More piteous for the one thing it lacked:
The hollow of its substance fixed me as a wound.

At last God came to me
And spoke, “The moon that doth so fright
Thee to behold,
Consider bold!
It is the figure of My Church, and thou
Art chosen to make full its glorious light.”

126

Then, humbly as a child
Caresses for a birthday feast,
He bade me pray
Whole holiday
For worship of the Blessed Sacrament—
“Go, Juliana, go; entreat for Me the priest.

Tell all the world My will
Is that this Feast be made.” He saw
My love how scant—
“A thing I want”;
He said, “And of thy proffered faith. How long
Wilt thou that I abide in My fair Church this flaw?”

Father, for twenty years
I have kept back this broken toy,
Given me to mend.
To comprehend
How I could bear these tidings to the world
Was for my energies too mighty an employ.

Still did that moon persist:
The famine and the hollow there
Maddened my will!
How could I fill
The abyss with gold, I in my poverty?
If I besought this boon would not the people stare?

127

It seemed God had forgot:
He did not press me any more.
The world I felt
Hungered, and knelt,
And kneels—I utter in your ears the words
I should have uttered twenty years before.

128

THE FIRST DAY

PENANCE

I would make offering to appease!
Great creatures, kneeling on their knees,
Burdening down mountain-rocks,
Stupendous in their blocks—
I would toil, pilgrim to my God, as these;
Who travel in their mass,
Through their mountain-pass.
I would bring magnitude to Thee,
Who art Infinity:
My God, in penance I would pant,
As the devoted Elephant,
Who, in his bulk he hath,
Bows down and up, to keep his path.

129

ELECT

Yea, Thou didst dream how I should be Thine own,
Dreaming, with eyes wide from the Father's throne,
Dreaming as dream young boys intent
On all the glory they will gain.
With eyes wide on the firmament,
How Thou didst dream the labour and the pain,
The sweat, the fainting, and my soul's consent!

130

DREAD ST. MICHAEL

Dread St. Michael, that with God prevails—
Priests, punctilious, insist
That thou canst not be
Guardian Angel unto me,
Who am but a child.

Thou art come from Hell most wild;
Thou the awful lake dost see
Where souls wail eternally;
And dependent from thy wrist
Are the judgment scales.

—O hist,
It is somewhere in the sacred tales
Thou wert guardian to my Jesus small.
When He cradled in a stall
Thou didst hold Him safe within the rails;
From the murderer beguiled,
From the adder, from the brook,
Thou didst shield Him: it may be
Thou didst guide Him to His Mother's knee,
When too far He dreamed in mountain-nook.

Egypt, with its demon-gods in bales,
And its sphinxes of the mighty fist,

131

Thou didst lead the little One among,
And protected Him from wrong,
Who was but a child.

Dread St. Michael, whose I am!
Save me from the fiends that damn—
So persuasive and so meek,
I may almost touch thy cheek—
Save me, so thy power with God prevails!

132

MY INTERCESSORS

He filleth his home with her;
He waiteth her every breath:
And looking down on him she saith,
“It is sweeter now than at Nazareth.”
She filleth her eye with him:
She is parted from her Son,
Who is hers ere the world begun—
And lo, all the will of the Lord is done!
They stand by the door at night,
Till the far-spent day be gone,
For they cease not to think upon
One thought day and night in the home of John.

These twain, my Intercessors!
And one is the Lord's delight;
And the other one is dight
In the Wisdom of the Infinite.
Sometimes, when she blesses him,
Sometimes, when he prays to her,
In their compassion, they confer
Of a life on the sorrowful earth astir.
And they plead for me upon
The stony steps of the house of John.

133

ARIDITY

O soul, canst thou not understand
Thou art not left alone,
As a dog to howl and moan
His master's absence? Thou art as a book
Left in a room that He forsook,
A book of His dear choice,
That quiet waiteth for His Hand,
That quiet waiteth for His Eye,
That quiet waiteth for His Voice.

134

RESERVATION

But where shall this sighing in me
Fall, as a wind may fall?
I would not have it die;
Let it die remote from me;
My grief must forth to the tombs.

Angel
Thy sighing shall not remain with thee,
Nor fall as a wind may fall;
Thou hast no patience to let it die:
I have hidden it alive from thee
In the warm, dry catacombs.

135

A PROFESSION

It is said of her—
“The Cross shall be on her breast as a bundle of myrrh.”

I have loved odours well,
Loved frankincense and hydromel:
The Angels know I have been very far
After where wild roses are;
And celled morsels of ambergris
Have risen up to my heart as peace.

Will the Cross confer
One day with my breast as a bundle of myrrh?
This would be, if I would let,
Rather as an English Violet,
That would make all my bosom's room
A very murmur of perfume—
This would be, if I would suffer it.

136

MOSS

I lie as a dull and heavy moss
That spreadeth dry beneath Thy Cross.
I lift for Thy drooped eyes no flower-bell
To shield Thee from the passer-by;
I sigh forth no odour for Thee to smell,
Though Thy nostrils search and cry;
But my meshes and plots, where I lie,
With Blood from Thy Feet are tingled;
My Earth with Thy Blood is mingled—
Should Thy lovely Feet be once unbound,
I yield Thee a carpet, soft, profound.

137

THE DIVINE OFFICE

Noble it is, and of great servitude
To chain the lips, and from vain gossipry;
With versicle and with responary
Cramp them and keep them in their pain subdued;
Till on obedience creepeth hebetude,
Nor would one stir from one's captivity.
Sudden a dazzling faintness to be free,
And from the jailer, now oneself, a rude
Contracting of the chains, till deep they jar
Against the soul's most inward flesh, and stings
Of blood reveal the rebel, if he hides—
Until One enters where the fetters are,
And overthrows the jailer, and beside
The captive singeth of wise, skyey things.

138

A CETTE HEURE OÙ J'ECRIS

On the other side the road,
Facing this our little parlour, glowed
Over by a murderous sun,
Is a hedge of holly deep, stone-dun:
And this hedge is as a leathern targe
Reared between us, and the open, large
Fields of mustered sunshine on the plain:
Holy Trinity, against the strain
Of the Devil, and his demon spite,
Twinkling on the fainted anchorite,
Thou the Holy Office dost provide—
Buckler of impenetrable hide:
Faithful in its shadow we abide,
And of God, our God, are sanctified.

139

ANSWERED PRAYER

I

But, where her Voice is heard,
It is the Voice
Even of the small, grey Bird
Of the Greeks' choice,

II

That sang from sorrow's springs,
Though open-eyed,
With all the lovely things
Of May beside.

III

Lo, God blindfolds my Bird;
And, through the scent
Of the dark May, is heard
Her song, content.

IV

There are would take my Bird,
Would strip her sight,
That, fullest night conferred,
She sing the night.

V

But, lo, my prayer is heard;
Through full moonlight,
Behold, my small, grey Bird
Jangles of Love and Night!

140

THE OPEN AIR

As I pass,
Drawing up the hill from Mass,
Lo, I gather
Leaves of plumèd yarrow,
And rose-bindweed in a braid
For one drooping in the shade,
Where the sweet flowers are not made;
And the butterfly
Never, never thrilleth by.

141

“WHERE THE BLESSED FEET HAVE TROD”

Not alone in Palestine those blessed Feet have trod,
For I catch their print,
I have seen their dint
On a plot of chalky ground,
Little villas dotted round;
On a sea-worn waste,
Where a priest, in haste,
Passeth with the Blessèd Sacrament to one dying, frail,
Through the yarrow, past the tamarisk, and the plaited snail:
Bright upon the grass I see
Bleeding Feet of Calvary—
And I worship, and I clasp them round!
On this bit of chalky, English ground,
Jesu, Thou art found; my God I hail,
My Lord, my God!

142

“TO SEE HIM IN HIS PLACE”

I

To see him in his place—
The face and the voice of the face!

II

The loneliness that is there
For the humblest soul to share.

III

The mouth where the mischief looms,
Where the demons play in tombs.

IV

And the way God's love is lit
Round his head and cuddles it.

V

The eyes that are quiet nooks
For the doves and the water-brooks.

VI

The eyes as the clear ascent
Of the doves to the firmament.

VII

To see him in his place—
The face and the voice of the face!

143

AFTER MASS

Lovingly I turn me down
From this church, St. Philip's crown,
To the leafy street where dwell
The good folk of Arundel.

Lovingly I look between
Roof and roof, to meadows green,
To the cattle by the wall,
To the place where sea-birds call,

Where the sky more closely dips,
And perchance, there may be ships:
God have pity on us all!