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New songs of innocence

By James Logie Robertson

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MY JOY.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


48

MY JOY.

My maiden with the mystic eyes
That caught their colour from the skies,
And look on earth without surprise,
How many memories I trace
Of beauty dead and vanished grace
In the sweet oval of thy face!
Upon that smooth pale rounded cheek,
The shadowy Graces of the Greek
A refuge from oblivion seek;
And when a dimple wakens there,
Like sunshine in a garden fair,
They wake, and wear a warmer air.
And thou art then a Joy of eld!
Such as the happier world beheld
Ere joy was quenched and youth was quelled.
A marble Grecian Joy art thou,
Restored to life, and living now,
And smiling with unaltered brow.

49

And dost thou marvel at our mood
Who deem no beauty born of good
Without the test of pain withstood?
Our Beauty looks through tear-dimmed eyes
From sodden earth to cloudy skies—
She is too sorrowfully wise!
But nought of sorrow dost thou know;
Thou smil'st on earth and all its woe,
And I would have thee ever so.
We worship at the shrine of Pain;
Our glorious robes with grief we stain,
And fret to make them clean again.
We choose the thorns and leave the flowers;
Despising Eden's fragrant bowers,
We claim the desert soil for ours.
But thou art fresh from Eden's land,
Fresh from thy Maker's forming hand,
With hopes we may not understand.
Unfettered yet by human law,
Unvexed by pity, fear, or awe,
But formed complete without a flaw,

50

And filled with joy's delicious wine,
Straight from the source of life divine,
The holiness of health is thine!
Could we but keep them pure and whole,
The body fair, the stainless soul,
Beneath our pitiful control!
We cannot? Then the fault be ours,
The thorns, the sad regretful showers;
Be thine God's sunshine and His flowers!