 | Dirge for Aoine and other poems |  |
xxxvi
A LITTLE CREED
Life is a scroll whereon the soul must write
Its tale of peace or sorrow or delight.
No man may leave it white,
But write true words thereon, though these were only
“I lived,” “I loved,” “I hoped,” or “I was lonely.”
Its tale of peace or sorrow or delight.
No man may leave it white,
But write true words thereon, though these were only
“I lived,” “I loved,” “I hoped,” or “I was lonely.”
The one false word of life is Ichabod.
The glory is not departed:
They lie who say it, being heavy-hearted.
The glory was here; the glory is hid with God.
All glories that we lose, or we forego,
Some day shall find us, this I surely know.
The glory is not departed:
They lie who say it, being heavy-hearted.
The glory was here; the glory is hid with God.
All glories that we lose, or we forego,
Some day shall find us, this I surely know.
All lost and lovely things of long ago,
Whose living fire grew cold
Upon the altars that we built of old,
Shall come and warm again
The gray and empty places of our pain,
Visible gods and fair
Breathing immortal promise in the air
That, being past sunset, lets all colours go,
Whose living fire grew cold
Upon the altars that we built of old,
Shall come and warm again
The gray and empty places of our pain,
Visible gods and fair
Breathing immortal promise in the air
That, being past sunset, lets all colours go,
Gladness and sadness that we put away,
And every dim belief of yesterday
For which we do not pray,
Grown old and cold and tired with long desire,
And every dim belief of yesterday
For which we do not pray,
Grown old and cold and tired with long desire,
xxxvii
Grown stiff with kneeling in a winter's night
In the ghost-ridden place of old delight,
Blowing the ashes gray
Of youth's extinguished fire,
Grace that we dare not hope for,
Good that we blindly grope for—
A sweet and piteous host
Of lovelinesses lost.
In the ghost-ridden place of old delight,
Blowing the ashes gray
Of youth's extinguished fire,
Grace that we dare not hope for,
Good that we blindly grope for—
A sweet and piteous host
Of lovelinesses lost.
When we are tired of seeking, and are still,
Broken, not in desire, but in our will,
Our heart's desire shall come to us, and kiss
The lips that lost their colour, seeking this.
Broken, not in desire, but in our will,
Our heart's desire shall come to us, and kiss
The lips that lost their colour, seeking this.
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