 | English Roses |  |
339
THE GOD-MAKERS.
It may be by us mortals,
Who suffer long and sing,
God is while dimly advertised
And crownèd more as King,
Yet through profounder portals
Made conscious and Self-realised.
And in each thought of greater girth
Or brightness of broad fancies
Dashed with a sweet undying dew,
Or rapture of romances
And truth for ever born anew,
God too is coming to the Birth.
Who suffer long and sing,
God is while dimly advertised
And crownèd more as King,
Yet through profounder portals
Made conscious and Self-realised.
And in each thought of greater girth
Or brightness of broad fancies
Dashed with a sweet undying dew,
Or rapture of romances
And truth for ever born anew,
God too is coming to the Birth.
It may be, by the Poet
Equipt with sword of song,
And only armed with Beauty's love
To light the world along;
Though he may never know it,
Fresh heavens are breaking out above.
And every little tender strain
Which takes one thorn from roses
And adds a petal or a hue,
When sick the heart reposes;
Must give to God a clearer clue,
And to the mysteries of pain.
Equipt with sword of song,
And only armed with Beauty's love
To light the world along;
Though he may never know it,
Fresh heavens are breaking out above.
And every little tender strain
Which takes one thorn from roses
And adds a petal or a hue,
When sick the heart reposes;
Must give to God a clearer clue,
And to the mysteries of pain.
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