JUDAS.
NOT I, oh Christ, not I betrayed thee
But He was traitor, He who made thee
Born of a village carpenter
With such immortal longings stir
As stretched beyond the world and found
In God himself the final wound.
Through me thou wast by soldiers taken
By Him, by Him on the Cross forsaken.
THE NIGHT.
BE quiet bird
Be silent all
That e’er were heard
And cease to call.
Drop perfume rose
And flowers white
Put off your shows
For see ’tis night.
Soft creatures slow
Begin to pass,
And thousands grow
From out the grass.
With deep low whirr
The air is full
And through the fir
The moon shines cool.
There is no pain
Sorrow is dead
Slow Charles’ wain
Wheels overhead.
There is no grief
All things have ease
No bough or leaf
Stirs on the trees.