 | Dirge for Aoine and other poems |  |
xvi
OSIRIS
(To William Beer)
O judge us kindly, Thou that judgest rightly
All things that mortal are.
We are but men who lift our weak hands nightly
To every wandering star.
Thy sisters are the End and the Beginning;
Thine is the empty hearth,
Thine, too, the peaceful sleep for all men's winning
In kindly earth
And Thine the souls that wake from sleep to sinning,
Osiris.
All things that mortal are.
We are but men who lift our weak hands nightly
To every wandering star.
Thy sisters are the End and the Beginning;
Thine is the empty hearth,
Thine, too, the peaceful sleep for all men's winning
In kindly earth
And Thine the souls that wake from sleep to sinning,
Osiris.
We saw Thee not, Lord, in the crowded city,
And in the market-place
Heard not the falling of Thy feet. Have pity;
Let thy queen's hidden face
Be softened with Thy mercy at our crying.
Thy hand that slew painted the lotus-blossom
And sowed love's seed in the kind mother's bosom.
By Philæ where Thy mortal part is lying,
We know Thou livest and that we are dying,
Osiris!
And in the market-place
Heard not the falling of Thy feet. Have pity;
Let thy queen's hidden face
Be softened with Thy mercy at our crying.
Thy hand that slew painted the lotus-blossom
And sowed love's seed in the kind mother's bosom.
By Philæ where Thy mortal part is lying,
We know Thou livest and that we are dying,
Osiris!
Thou knowest we are weak: that we are strong
We know not, for like waves
We fall and shatter, and a bridal song
Breaks music round our graves.
We are the strings that help Thy harp to sweetness.
Alas! we only sing
Sweet things o'erthrown, the blow that ends completeness,
Artist and King!
We know not, for like waves
xvii
Breaks music round our graves.
We are the strings that help Thy harp to sweetness.
Alas! we only sing
Sweet things o'erthrown, the blow that ends completeness,
Artist and King!
Thine is the dream, and Thine the dawn that breaks it.
We can but dream and die.
Thou art the song, Thou Silence that o'ertakes it
And answers every cry.
Beside the labouring kine the neatherd trudgeth.
At noon Thou makest earth of him again.
We cry against Thee, “Who art Thou That judgeth,
Maker Who marrest men?”
We can but dream and die.
Thou art the song, Thou Silence that o'ertakes it
And answers every cry.
Beside the labouring kine the neatherd trudgeth.
At noon Thou makest earth of him again.
We cry against Thee, “Who art Thou That judgeth,
Maker Who marrest men?”
| Dirge for Aoine and other poems | |