Poems of Adoration By Michael Field [i.e. K. H. Bradley and E. E. Cooper] |
 |
“COMMUNICANTES ET MEMORIAM
VENERANTES . . . JOANNIS ET
PAULI” |
 | Poems of Adoration |  |
52
“COMMUNICANTES ET MEMORIAM VENERANTES . . . JOANNIS ET PAULI”
TWO olive-branches—silver; two candelabra,—gold:
Precious as only tried and precious things
Are of their essence bold,
The Roman John and Paul—young heads together—
Pray on, nor is there any question whether
The image that the Emperor's Præfect brings
For worship will be worshipped, for already
The service of their ritual is so steady
It is as day moving to noon, and moving to night's fold.
Precious as only tried and precious things
Are of their essence bold,
The Roman John and Paul—young heads together—
Pray on, nor is there any question whether
The image that the Emperor's Præfect brings
For worship will be worshipped, for already
The service of their ritual is so steady
It is as day moving to noon, and moving to night's fold.
In one white, empty chamber two brethren, yet as one,
And as a sepulchre their home made bare.
Ye ask what they have done?
And the poor answer, “These would have no treasure
Save this, that they can die.” O solemn pleasure
To see their home a casket everywhere
Wrought for their hour of death! Gone the slow mornings
Through which they wearied out the Emperor's warnings!
Now they would hold their jewel safe in their white walls, with prayer.
And as a sepulchre their home made bare.
Ye ask what they have done?
And the poor answer, “These would have no treasure
Save this, that they can die.” O solemn pleasure
To see their home a casket everywhere
Wrought for their hour of death! Gone the slow mornings
Through which they wearied out the Emperor's warnings!
Now they would hold their jewel safe in their white walls, with prayer.
53
The silence! One can listen how the gold morning sun
Sings through the air, the hush is grown so fine.
Steps!—Thus intrusive run
Rain-storms on solitudes—A white-flashed gleaming!
The brow of Jove, the cloud-white hair, the beaming
Cloud-swirl of beard! A voice that bids, “Incline,
And offer homage!” . . . How the silence tingles!
The sun with air in call and echo mingles:
Those brethren of closed senses—peace! they have made no sign.
Sings through the air, the hush is grown so fine.
Steps!—Thus intrusive run
Rain-storms on solitudes—A white-flashed gleaming!
The brow of Jove, the cloud-white hair, the beaming
Cloud-swirl of beard! A voice that bids, “Incline,
And offer homage!” . . . How the silence tingles!
The sun with air in call and echo mingles:
Those brethren of closed senses—peace! they have made no sign.
They had not sought to gather, even for the sick and poor,
The lilies of their garden—head by head,
The older with the newer—
Nor violet-roots from Pæstum, the weaved roses.
And now the garden of their home uncloses
To cover into secrecy the dead:
Deep hidden by the roses they had watered,
Lying together sanctified and slaughtered,
Their blood upon them underground, above the rose-leaves spread.
The lilies of their garden—head by head,
The older with the newer—
Nor violet-roots from Pæstum, the weaved roses.
And now the garden of their home uncloses
To cover into secrecy the dead:
Deep hidden by the roses they had watered,
Lying together sanctified and slaughtered,
Their blood upon them underground, above the rose-leaves spread.
Lured, as the demons wander, demons sore afraid,
Unclean, tormented, and that do not cease
Their rending cries for aid,
The son of him who slew the saints, by daytime
Wandering, by night, that garden in the Maytime,
Is cured of his distraction and at peace:
Then glad Terentius, coming to the garden,
Of which his well-belovèd is the warden,
Plucketh a reed to glorify the martyrs he hath made.
Unclean, tormented, and that do not cease
Their rending cries for aid,
54
Wandering, by night, that garden in the Maytime,
Is cured of his distraction and at peace:
Then glad Terentius, coming to the garden,
Of which his well-belovèd is the warden,
Plucketh a reed to glorify the martyrs he hath made.
| Poems of Adoration | |