We, singly, feel a sudden sharp regret
Behind all beauty, but we—two in one,
As white and blue are separate in a flame
Yet mingled—we shall watch the hours run
Seeing with surer knowledge how the same
Eternal splendour for the soul is set,
And the day comes again from whence day came.
THE SAINT'S BIRTHDAY
One of God's blessed pitying saints one day,
Reaching out hands to touch the azure throne:
"Because it is my birthday, Lord," he said,
"That I was born in heaven, when I was known
By an earthly name, and stoned and left for dead,
"Because it is the custom, Lord, of men
To keep their birthdays gladly, and with gifts
Grant me a blessing from your blesséd stores."
And from the cloudy rose and amber drifts
About the Throne, God answered: "It is yours."
Then sprang the glad Saint earthwards; at his feet
Were little golden flames, and all his hair
Was blown about his head like tongues of fire,
And like a star he burned through the dark air,
And came, and stood by farm and shed and byre
Before the earliest grey was in the East,
Or the first smoke above the chimney-stack
From earliest-rising housewife, yet the cheep
And twitter of birds did gladly welcome back
Him who such love for earth in heaven could keep,
And who on earth such love had had for men
And bird and beast, and all that lived and grew:
The sparrows in the eaves remembered him
And chirrupped in the gables, while the dew
Was dark still, and the day below the rim.
He stood there, in the village of his life
Ere he won heaven, and the breath of cows
Came as a benediction, and the smell
Of rain-sweet copses, and, where cattle browse,
Long grass, and running water in the dell.
And his heart opened with the love he had
For the dear toil-worn dwelling-place of men;
To hear the sheep crop, see the glimmering grey
Lighten the waiting windows once again,
And garden roses opening to the day.