One bird, anguish stricken, lingers
In the shadow of the vale,
First and best of feathered singers,—
’Tis the churchyard nightingale.
As from bough to bough he flutters,
Sweetest songs of woe and wail
Through his gift divine he utters
For the dreamers in the vale.
Listen how his trills awaken
Echoes from each mossy stone!
Of all places he has taken
God’s still Acre for his own.
* * * * *
Not on Spring or Summer glory,
Not on god or angel story
Loyal poet-fancy dwells!
Not on streams for rich men flowing,
Not on fields for rich men’s mowing,—
Graves he sees, of graves he tells.
Pain, oppression, woe eternal,
Open heart-wounds deep, diurnal,
Nothing comforts or allays;
O’er God’s Acre in each nation
Sings he songs of tribulation
Tunes his golden harp and plays.
[The Creation Of Man]
When the world was first created
By th’ all-wise Eternal One,
Asked he none for help or counsel,—
Simply spake, and it was done!
Made it for his own good pleasure,
Shaped it on his own design,
Spent a long day’s work upon it,
Formed it fair and very fine.
Soon he thought on man’s creation,—
Then perplexities arose,
So the Lord His winged Senate
Called, the question to propose:
Hear, my great ones, why I called ye,
Hear and help me ye who can,
Hear and tell me how I further
Shall proceed in making man.