Earth hath not seen it.
Nor heaven above, Yet shall the wild bough Bend with the Dove.
Yea, tho' the bloom fall Under Thy feet, _Veni, Creator, Paraclete!_
AFTER RAIN
Listen! On sweetening air The blackbird growing bold Flings out, where green boughs glisten, Three splashes of wild gold.
Daughter of April, hear; And hear, O barefoot boy!
That carol of wild sweet water Has washed the world with joy.
Glisten, O fragrant earth Assoiled by heaven anew, And O, ye lovers, listen, With eyes that glisten, too.
THE DEATH OF A GREAT MAN
No--not that he is dead. The pang's not there, Nor in the City's many-coloured bloom Of swift black-lettered posters, which the throng Passes with bovine stare, To say _He is dead_ and _Is it going to rain?_ Or hum stray snatches of a rag-time song.
Nor is it in that falsest shibboleth (Which orators toss to the dumb scorn of death) That all the world stands weeping at his tomb.
London is dining, dancing, through it all.
And, in the unchecked smiles along the street Where men, that slightly knew him, lightly meet, With all the old indifferent grimaces, There is no jot of grief, no tittle of pain.
No. No. For nearer things do most tears fall.
Grief is for near and little things. But pride, O, pride was to be found by two or three, And glory in his great battling memory, Prouder and purer than the loud world knows, In one more dreadful sign, the day he died-- The dreadful light upon a thousand faces, The peace upon the faces of his foes.
THE ROMAN WAY
He that has loyally served the State Whereof he found himself a part, Or spent his life-blood to create A kingdom's treasure in his art;
Who sees the enemies of his land Applauded, by her sects and schools; And the high thought they scarce had scanned Derided and befogged by fools;
--Better to know it soon than late!-- Struggling, he wins a meed of praise; Achieving, he is dogged by hate And furtive malice all his days.
O, Emperor of the Stoic clan, Enfold him, then, with nobler pride.
Teach him that nought can hurt a man Who will not turn or stoop to chide.
Can falsehood kindle or bedim One bay-leaf in his quiet crown?
Ten thousand Lies may pluck at him, But only Truth can tear him down.
Why should he heed the thing they say?
They never asked if it were true.
Why brush one scribbler's tale away For others to invent a new?
No, let him search his heart, secure --If Truth be there--from tongue or pen; And teach us, Emperor, to endure, To think like Romans and like men.
THE INNER PASSION
There is a Master in my heart To whom, though oft against my will, I bring the songs I sing apart And strive to think that they fulfil His silent law, within my heart.
But He is blind to my desires, And deaf to all that I would plead: He tests my truth at purer fires And shames my purple with His need.
He claims my deeds, not my desires.
And often when my comrades praise, I sadden, for He turns from me!
But, sometimes, when they blame, I raise Mine eyes to His, and in them see A tenderness too deep for praise.
He is not to be bought with gold, Or lured by thornless crowns of fame; But when some rebel thought hath sold Him to dishonour and to shame, And my heart's Pilate cries, "Behold,"
"Behold the Man," I know Him then; And all those wild thronged clamours die In my heart's judgment hall again, Or if it ring with "Crucify!"
Some few are faithful even then.
Some few sad thoughts,--one bears His cross; To that dark Calvary of my pride; One stands far off and mourns His loss, And one poor thief on either side Hangs on his own unworthy cross.
And one--O, truth in ancient guise!-- Rails, and one bids him cease alway, And the God turns His hungering eyes On that poor thought with, "Thou, this day, Shalt sing, shalt sing, in Paradise."
A COUNTRY LANE IN HEAVEN
The exceeding weight of glory bowed My head, in that pure clime: I found a road that ran through cloud Along the coasts of Time....
Out of that mist of years there came A cross-barred gate of wood.
I clutched, I kissed the unheavenly frame So hard, it trickled blood.
My head upon the iron lay.
I slobbered blood and foam.
Yea, like a dog, I knew the way, A hundred yards from home.
_Iron and blood and wood! They knew The secret of that cry When the Eternal Passion drew Their Maker through--to die._
I knew each little hawthorn-cloud Along my misty lane, Then my heart burst. She sobbed aloud, Between my arms again.