II
The Father of Heaven.
Weave, hands angelical,
Weave a woof of flesh to pall
Weave, hands evangelical—
Flesh to pall our Viola.
Angels.
Weave, singing brothers, a
Velvet flesh for Viola!
III
The Father of Heaven.
Scoop, young Jesus, for her eyes,
Wood-browned pools of Paradise—
Young Jesus, for the eyes,
For the eyes of Viola.
Angels.
Tint, Prince Jesus, a
Dusked eye for Viola!
It may be that he will always be a poet for the few; that his mystical, esoteric spirit, finding its proper expression in baffling imagery and elusive, other-worldly rhythms, will never be wholly congenial to the many. But his place is assured; for he had no traffic with the things of a day or the language of a day. The beauty which haunts his prose and his verse is of that universal order which can hardly fade by the mere passing of time. Only a change in the human spirit can make it dim.
NOTE
Many of the foregoing chapters are based upon articles which have been published in periodicals. My thanks are due to the Editors of the following journals, which I name in the order of my indebtedness:—The English Review, The Nation, The Daily News, The North American Review, The British Review, and The Athenæum.