By what false spell of what enchanter's wand
Should thy gross fibre be with love allied?
Unhappy youth, thou callest to thy side
An unknown shade from some far spirit land;
Thou canst not guess, nor shalt thou understand,
The waters that thy soul from his divide.
In place of Love, what alien spirits glide
About thy sleep to answer thy command?
What blasphemy is this? Thou hast no spell
To call that heaven-born spirit from the deep,
Or move the stars. What cometh in his place?
This monstrous fraud which thou hast raised from hell,
Whose arms about thee in the darkness creep?
Light not thy torch, lest thou shouldst see
his face.
OLIVIA MEYNELL
A Grief without Christ
I sought Him in the trees, and Him I found
In every colour, and in every sound.
I sought Him in the sky, and He was there,
A living God, breathing the living air.
I sought Him in my soul—oh, passionate loss!
All that I found was a forsaken Cross.
The Crowning
Whenas we wandered in the summer hours,
My kind love crowned me with a crown of flowers.
Softly they touched my forehead and my hair;
Gay, sunny, yellow, and sweet-breathed they were—
Soft flowers and tender hands, gay sun, soft skies;
And sweeter, tenderer yet, his loving eyes.
Ah! but it should have been with thorns he crowned me,
Who follow Christ, while cold skies blackened round me.
Dear love, I will accept from you cold frown,
Sharp words, hard touch, as symbols of His crown.