But ride out unawares
On that old road,
Of Minsterworth, of Peace,
Of Framilode,
And walk, not looked for, in
That cool, dark passage.
Never a single word;
Myself my message.
And then; well ... O we’ll drift
And stand and gaze,
And wonder how we could
In those Bad Days
Live without Minsterworth;
Or western air
Fanning the hot cheek,
Stirring the hair;
In land where hate of men
God’s love did cover;
This land.... And here’s my dream
Irrevocably over.
“HARK, HARK, THE LARK”
Hark, hark, the lark to heaven’s gate uprisen,
Pours out his joy ...
I think of you, shut in some distant prison,
O Boy, poor Boy;
Your heart grown sick with hope deferred and shadows
Of prison ways;
Not daring to snatch a thought of Severn meadows,
Or old blue-days.
SONG AT MORNING
Praise for the day’s magnificent uprising!
Praise for the cool
Air and the blue new-old ever-surprising
Face of the sky, and mirrored blue of the pool.
Only the fool, bat-witted, owl-eyed fool
Can hold a deaf ear while life begins
The actual opening of a myriad stories....
Blindness, ingratitude, the foolishest sins!
Now if this day blot out my chief desires,
And leave me maimed and blind and full of hot
Surges of insurrection, evil fires,
Memories of joys that seem better forgot;
Quiet me then.
Thy Will is binding on the nearest flower
As on the farthest star; and what shall put me
Out of Thy power, or from Thy guidance far,
Though I in hell of my self-will would shut me?
But if Thy Will be joy for me to-day,
Give me clear eyes, a heart open to feel
Thy influence, Thy kindness: O unseal
The shut, the hidden places in me, reveal
Those things most precious secretly hidden away
From all save children and the simply wise.
Give me clear eyes!
And strength to know, whatever may befall,
The eternal presence of great mysteries,
Glorifying Thee for all.