English Roses by F. Harald Williams [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] |
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ARS LONGA, VITA BREVIS. |
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 | English Roses |  |
ARS LONGA, VITA BREVIS.
Ah, if I only could create
The tiniest house of song,
To be a part of earth's estate
And with it roll along;
If I could forge one living line
Of woman's love and flame divine
To be a beacon ever,
And shoot its glory through the shade
Of time, when suns and systems fade,
By true and grand endeavour;
Then I would gladly yield my breath
And break this mortal tie,
And find deliciousness in death
But yet not wholly die.
The tiniest house of song,
To be a part of earth's estate
And with it roll along;
If I could forge one living line
Of woman's love and flame divine
To be a beacon ever,
And shoot its glory through the shade
Of time, when suns and systems fade,
By true and grand endeavour;
Then I would gladly yield my breath
And break this mortal tie,
And find deliciousness in death
But yet not wholly die.
And thus I weary night and day,
To build a sacred cell
Wherein Divinity's bright ray
May take delight to dwell;
A snare to catch the passing God
Who shines alike on cloud and clod,
To keep His Grace in prison;
That there may be perpetual morn,
When our poor kingdoms are outworn
And worlds have set and risen;
I frame my very bone and flesh
And all this beating heart,
Each day in some new work afresh
That flowers from loving art.
To build a sacred cell
Wherein Divinity's bright ray
May take delight to dwell;
A snare to catch the passing God
Who shines alike on cloud and clod,
380
That there may be perpetual morn,
When our poor kingdoms are outworn
And worlds have set and risen;
I frame my very bone and flesh
And all this beating heart,
Each day in some new work afresh
That flowers from loving art.
Ah, if I only could just light
A lamp of holy oil,
To shine when man has taken flight
And done his little toil;
If but a glowworm in the gloom
To stay one pilgrim step from doom
When strayed or darkly driven,
A beam across the trackless deep
Where sufferers watch and mourners weep,
To save a soul unshriven;
Then all these fifty years of pain
Whence I could never reap,
Though tenfold were not sown in vain
And every cross were cheap.
A lamp of holy oil,
To shine when man has taken flight
And done his little toil;
If but a glowworm in the gloom
To stay one pilgrim step from doom
When strayed or darkly driven,
A beam across the trackless deep
Where sufferers watch and mourners weep,
To save a soul unshriven;
Then all these fifty years of pain
Whence I could never reap,
Though tenfold were not sown in vain
And every cross were cheap.
And thus a purpose as of fire
Burns through each borrowed mask,
Consuming me with vast desire
To make a perfect task;
To leave behind me something fair,
If on the great white altar stair
A stone of modest meetness
And nothing more, yet in its place
As needful as the grandest grace
And one with that completeness;
From magic founts I drink my fill,
I take from Orient marts,
And rise as by a ladder still
Upon my broken parts.
Burns through each borrowed mask,
Consuming me with vast desire
To make a perfect task;
To leave behind me something fair,
If on the great white altar stair
A stone of modest meetness
And nothing more, yet in its place
As needful as the grandest grace
And one with that completeness;
From magic founts I drink my fill,
I take from Orient marts,
And rise as by a ladder still
Upon my broken parts.
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