I THOUGHT to lay my hands about Thy Crown,
And gather, bleeding, its sharp spines:
But as I knelt and bowed my forehead down,
Worshipping thy cruel desert-Crown,
Worshipping its thicket of sharp spines—
Through them blew a little wind,
Clearer than the dew in breath
Round Thy Mother’s feet at Nazareth;
In a cloud it left behind
Scent of violets, of such birth
They had never broken earth,
But through meshes of the Crown of Thorn,
In a fertilising cloud, were born;
And, fresh with piety of grace,
Were thrown—oh sweet!—unseen across my face.
That never will a mould-born violet-bed
Smell like the violets from the Sacred Head.
IN CHRISTO
AS shade doth on a dial slide,
Those dark and parting eyes abide
Toward me from the tall vessel’s side:
Eyes lovelier than the stones of grace
That build for God His dwelling-place;
Beyond all jewels in device,
Yea, beyond amethyst in price,
The hyacinth-stone in loveliness.
Delectable, dear eyes that bless;
A saviour’s eyes, bent down on me,
As New Jerusalem might be
Come down, adorned with Charity....
Let the tall vessel sweep to sea!
SIGHTS FOR GOD
A WOMAN, heavenly as dew
Of the fresh morning, in a little room
Is kneeling down, and through
The door of it an Angel’s bloom
Of light, how lonely, hath advanced,
And on the walls his lovely light hath danced,
As he hath told God’s utter Will
Unto that creature heavenly and still—
God the Father’s terrible, high Will.
Motions of fear and wonder
The girl sways under;
Her eyes distraught, as wings
A hawk’s suspension brings
To panic, when two doves
Tremble mid their sweet loves.
She sees beyond sight’s rim
God and the Power of Him;
His Promise fallen on her
As grace He would confer—
Men and the fear their speech
Must startle should it reach
A virgin’s secrecy....
How can such terrors be?
Then over her, distraught,
Falls a contentment wrought
To courage of a word
By the Archangel heard
With heart’s felicity—
“Be it done unto me
According to His Will.”
The little room thereafter grew more still,
And Mary knelt and shone
With grace, although the Angel’s beam was gone.
This was the fairest sight God yet had looked upon—
Mary, the chosen Mother of His Son,
Obedient to Him
As glowing Seraphim.
A lonely Man, beneath the trees,
That stoop above a sward of garden-ground,
Kneels in the evening breeze,
Felt as flow without a sound.
While He kneels in that cool place,
With the moonlight settled on His face,
He is praying that He may not drink
Of a Cup filled bitter to the brink,
Praying in His anguish not to drink.
And, in strife tremendous
Of woe stupendous,
He strains with power so great—
As a red pomegranate
That splits and bleeds His head
With blood is scarlet-red.
He struggles with the might
Of the world’s sin in sight,
That He must bear if now
He bends ensanguined brow,
And drinks that awful Cup
Before his eyes raised up.
Sin!—us He meets the shock,
Earth reddens to its rock
With blood.... Then peace from storm
Comes to that ruddy Form,
And a brave word of God
Blows over the wet sod—
“If I must drink, not mine,
My will, O Father, thine
Be done! Not mine, Thy Will!”
The garden-shades thereafter grew more still,
Because an angel came,
And the red forehead whitened in his flame.
This was the fairest sight God ever looked upon—
Jesus, His loved, only-begotten Son,
Obedient to Him
As sworded Cherubim.
TRANSIT
Cloud that streams its breath of unseen flowers,
Cloud with spice of bay,
Of roses, lily-breathings, and the powers
Of small violets, or, aloft, black poplars as they quiver!
Cloud that streams its song of birds—no bird
Seen to chant the song:
Yet wide and keen as sun-breath it is heard,
All the air itself a voice of voices chiming golden!
Mary hath passed by. All plants sweet-leaved,
Sweet-flowered; birds, sweet-voiced,
Round her passing have their sweetness weaved.
Let us yield our incense up, our anthems and our homage!