Ordained
1.
THROUGH jewelled windows in the walls
The tempered daylight smiles,
And solemn music swells and falls
Adown these stately aisles;
Beneath that carven chancel- rood
Low murmurs, hushed to silence, brood;
One voice in prayer appeals
For Holy Spirit's quickening grace
To light his now anointed face
Who at the altar kneels.
2.
One hour ago, like us, he trod
Along these cloisters dim —
Now we are bid to reverence God
Made manifest in him;
To mock at our enlightened sense
And dearly won experience,
So far beyond his own;
To take him for our heaven- sent guide
Upon these seas, so wild and wide,
To him as yet unknown.
3.
Unconscious of the coming strife,
Unformed in mind and thought,
Without one ripe idea of life
Save what his school books taught,
An ignorant boy, he vows a vow
To think and feel as he does now
Till his gold locks are grey;
Pledges his word to learn no more —
To add no wisdom to the store
His young mind holds to- day.
4.
How shall he keep this senseless oath
When once a full- grown man?
How shall he check his upward growth
To fit this meagre plan?
Only by ruthless pinching out
Of all the fairest shoots that sprout,
As on a healthy tree,
From his expanding brain and heart —
Defrauding his diviner part
Of its virility.
5.
And thus shall youthful passion pale
In native force and fire;
And thus shall soaring pinions fail,
Bedraggled in the mire;
This tender conscience, now so bright,
Lose its fine sense of wrong and right —
Dulled with a moral rust;
This ardent intellect be damped,
This eager spirit starved and cramped -
Choked in mediaeval dust.
6.
Thus shall the fettered arm grow numb,
And blind the bandaged eye;
Thus shall the silenced voice grow dumb,
As year by year goes by;
Until at last, from long abuse
And lack of free and wholesome use,
All manhood's powers decline;
And, like a lamp unfed, untrimmed,
Intelligence, once bright, is dimmed,
No more to burn and shine.
7.
Then may we see this sanguine youth —
Born for a nobler lot —
Turn traitor to the highest truth
Because he knows it not;
Serving for Mammon, veiled as God,
Cringing for high- born patron's nod,
For social place and gain,
While he mechanically yields
The produce of his fallow fields —
Husks of long- garnered grain.
8.
No more a brave and honest man,
Whose conscience is his own,
But worse than thief and courtesan
To degradation grown;
A cheat and hypocrite, content,
In shelter of base precedent,
The downward path to tread,
Lest he should lose his Esau's bowl,
That bought the birthright of his soul,
And have to earn his bread.
9.
Or, if remorsefully aware
Of his ignoble case,
Owning himself too weak to dare
A brother's hostile face,
Too weak to stand alone and fight
Against the strong world's might with right —
A leader's part to take;
Dying a daily death in life,
At outward peace and inward strife,
For poor convention's sake.
10.
Let organ music swell and peal,
And priests and people pray,
Let those who can at altar kneel —
I have no heart to stay.
I cannot bear to see it done —
This fresh young life, scarce yet begun,
Closed by that iron door;
A free- born spirit gagged and bound,
Tethered to one small plot of ground,
While all the great world spreads around,
And doomed to fly no more.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Related quotes
The Watchman
I
Through jewelled windows in the walls
The tender daylight smiles;
Majestic music swells and falls
Adown the stately aisles;
Shadows of carven roof and rood,
Of stony saints and angels, brood
Above the altar-glow;
They cannot dim the shining face
Of one conspicuous in his place
Amid the forms below.
He that was once my little boy,
With merry voice and look,
My babe, that quarrelled with his toy
And tore his hated book;
But yesterday a laughing lad,
In his dear worldly garments clad,
Talking of college wins,
Wickets, and bumping boats, and goals,
And not of shepherd and lost souls -
His sermons and their sins.
The same, he kneels there, pale and awed,
In cloud of prayer and hymn,
And we are to behold our Lord
Made manifest in him;
To sit, his pupils, and be taught,
Who knows not what the years have brought
To mothers and to men;
To take him for our heaven-sent guide
On seas he never voyaged - wide
And wild beyond his ken.
With all the lore of schools, and none
Of stern and suffering life,
A child with wooden sword and gun,
Unarmed for vital strife;
His mind a bud of spring, unblown,
Its flowering shape as yet unknown,
Its fruit awaiting birth -
A seedling of a thousand strains,
A parasite of dead men's brains,
Though sprung from living earth.
There, in his proud belief, he stands,
This simple boy of mine,
Transformed by necromantic hands
To something half divine -
All in a moment, in a breath,
An oracle of life and death,
A judge above us all!
What spell is this that has him fast,
When age of miracle is past,
And past beyond recall?
O knight of dreams, in fairy mail!
If for his sake I pray,
It is that fairy arms may fail
And tough steel win the day -
Aye, though his dear heart take the thrust,
And he be trampled in the dust.
But mother fears forbode
(May God have mercy and forefend!)
A tamer journey and an end
Upon an easier road.
A long fulfilling of the vow
Within the vow he spake -
To close the gates of knowledge now,
And no more dare to take
The broad highways of marching thought
By his unfettered brothers sought,
Who follow every clue
On every line, where'er it leads,
Heedless of heresies or creeds,
To find the Right and True.
The mother-love, so apt for woe,
Visions the joyless track
Where the belovèd feet may go
And nevermore come back;
The boy become a thinking man,
That has outgrown the changeless plan
Once fitted to his shape;
The traveller, confident, serene,
Caught in an ambush unforeseen,
Whence there is no escape.
Struggling a little - overborne -
Perplexed - persuaded - spent
With dim self-pity and self-scorn
Supine in discontent.
No - no escape, by any arts,
Save through a score of bleeding hearts -
A stair too steep to climb;
Wherefore be wise and hide the chains,
Drug conscience, with its pangs and pains.
Give peace, Lord, in our time!
O waste of precious force and fire!
The sacred passion pales.
The soaring pinions droop and tire.
Our standard-bearer fails
To keep his battle-flag aloft;
The strong young arm is slack and soft;
The eager feet are slow;
The shining mail is dulled with rust
Of contact with mediaeval dust,
And will not bear a blow.
And under harness so decayed,
What ravage unrevealed?
What moral textures soiled and frayed
And moral sores unhealed?
He must not know that dares not tell.
Hush! It is nothing. All is well.
Peace in our time, O Lord!
And leave the fighting for the heirs.
The blood of sacrifice be theirs
Who cannot shirk the sword.
O boy of mine, that played the game,
And never learned to cheat,
Nor knew such word or thought as shame
In victory or defeat!
Will he be found, when he grows old,
Passing off spurious coin for gold,
Selling dry husks for grain -
The pottage of the Esau's bowl
That bought the birthright of a soul
His all-sufficient gain?
The image and the robes of what
He seems to serve and seek
But veils - although he knows it not -
On Mammon's brazen cheek;
His bishop's smile, his patron's nod,
The homage of his flock, his god;
His sensuous worship drest
In forms and colours rich and rare -
The spirit's sanctuary bare -
Heart emptily at rest . . . . . .
Let organ music swell and peal,
And priests and people pray;
Let those who can at altar kneel -
I have no heart to stay.
I cannot bear to see it done -
The hands whose work has scarce begun
Locked in these gyves of lead -
The living spirit gagged and bound,
And tethered to one plot of ground -
A prisoner of the dead.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Answers
What is the end of each man's toil,
Brother, O Brother?
A handful of dust in a bit of soil-
His name forgotten as centuries roll,
Though blazoned to-day on Glory's scroll;
For the lordliest work of brain or hand
Is only an imprint made on sand;
When the tidal wave sweeps over the shore
It is there no more,
Brother, my Brother.
Then what is the use of striving at all,
Brother, O Brother?
Because each effort or great or small
Is a step on the long, long road that leads
To the Kingdom of Growth on the River of Deeds:
And that is the kingdom no man can gain
Till he uses his hand and his mind and brain,
And when he has used them and learned control
He finds his soul,
Brother, my Brother.
And after he finds it, what is the end,
Brother, O Brother?
Upward ever its course and trend;
For this is the purpose and aim and plan
To seek in the soul for the Super-man-
The man who is conscious that Heaven is near-
A bulletin bearer from There to Here,
Finding God dwells in the spirit within
Where He ever has been,
Brother, my Brother.
And what will the God-man do when He comes,
Brother, O Brother?
He will better the world or in courts or slums,
He will do in gladness his nearest duty:
He will teach the religion of love and beauty
In field or factory, mine or mart,
While He tells the world of the larger part
And the wider life that is yet to be
When spirit is free,
Brother, my Brother.
When spirit is free, then where will it go,
Brother, O Brother?
Its uttermost summit no man may know,
For it goes up to God in His holy Tower
To gather more knowledge and force and power;
Like a ray of the sun it shall shine again
To brighten new planets and races of men.
Life had no beginning, life has no end,
Brother and friend-
Brother, my Brother.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Idle Son
Young Benjamin left school this year
And stepped right in a job;
And he starts in hope of a life career,
Like his eldest brother, Bob.
But Sam, the lad who came between,
Born in the fateful year 'thirteen,
Still vainly seeks a place;
And the mark of his fate, too plainly seen,
Dawns in his listless face.
For Sam was born in a black year,
In the year of the world's black rage
To rob his youth of childish mirth;
And another curse was on the earth
In the year he came of age.
War and depression, this grim twain,
Have clouded life for a bright young brain.
Life smiles for Benjamin and Bob,
Each lucky in his age;
But the count of years falls ill to rob
Same of his heritage:
Too old for a youth's apprenticeship,
Untrained, too young for a man's firm grip,
Tho' a man in stature grown,
He lives to see his chances slip,
Thro' no fault of his own.
For Sam was born in a black year,
In a black year came from school.
But we who know past years of ease
Hold stern responsibilities
Ere his youthful ardours cool.
Ours is the duty, ours the task
To yield what youth has right to ask.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Profit And Loss
Each day a new sword flashes in the van;
Another leader, brave to do or die,
Comes forth, full- furnished for the strife whereby
He gains his growth and stature as a man.
Each day our world, that under the black ban
Of ignorant custom for so long did lie,
Grows bright and brighter, like a clearing sky,
More good and lovely in its wondrous plan.
Yet oh! how few the saved, how small the gain,
How poor the profit as against the cost —
The waste of life, divinely vast and fair,
Potential in starved soul and unfed brain —
The powers that might have been and might be — lost
Only for want of common food and air!
poem by Ada Cambridge
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At Liberty
1.
No sight to me like sight of ships.
No wine to me like salt- spray thrown
By morning breezes on my lips;
No music sweeter than the moan
Of solemn surges landward blown.
O world unconquered! O great sea,
Tamed by celestial winds alone!
My spirit is at home with thee,
Panting with thy wild waves for space and liberty.
2.
The land is captive, sold, and bought;
The streets are filled with traffic base;
And I am choked with narrow thought —
The dusty customs that disgrace
Mart, chamber, church, and judgment- place.
But when, upon this lonely shore,
I hear thy voice and see thy face,
I seem to pass a prison door,
And breathe, a free- born man, my native air once more.
3.
The urgent tyrannies of life
Relax their grasp when I am here;
I rise above the fretful strife,
The timid doubt, the trembling fear,
The petty woes that crowd so near;
And, with brain cleansed and pulses stilled,
Stand in the spacious atmosphere,
My inmost being rapt and thrilled,
With unimagined peace and wordless worship filled.
4.
O mystery that no thought can reach!
O language that no tongue can tell!
The whispering surf upon the beach —
The murmuring of the mid- sea swell —
The long boom, like a tolling bell,
That shakes the earth beneath my feet —
The solitude ineffable!
O what new strength, divine and sweet,
Breathes in the mighty gales that round these headlands beat!
5.
Thou, friend, in those wild arms caressed,
My comrade, that hast house and home
On that illimitable breast,
Thy spirit in the wind and foam
Meets mine beneath this starlit dome.
I have no compass and no chart;
I know not where thy bark may roam;
I know not, brother, where thou art;
But I can feel thy courage lifting up my heart.
6.
The shadow of the splendid night
Blots out sea- blue and sunset red.
The glimmering canvas, wide and white,
By sweeping rush of trade- wind spread,
Like sea- birds wings above thy head —
Tall mast, slim spar and cobweb shroud,
And slant deck echoing to thy tread —
The great ship, stately, strong, and proud,
Fades on the darkening deep like some dispersing cloud.
7.
But thou art there, amid the stars
That watch me with those steadfast eyes.
Thy soul, escaped from bolts and bars,
Conventioned fetters and disguise,
As open as these arching skies,
Untrammelled as this boundless sea,
Calm in the awful darkness lies,
Like babe upon its mother's knee,
Humble, but unafraid, as honest soul should be.
8.
Thinking of thee — so small a speck
Amid these myriad worlds around,
But king upon thy quarter- deck —
More king than monarch throned and crowned
That e'er on subject smiled or frowned —
Of what depends upon thy skill,
And thee, by conscience only bound —
I think how nobly we may fill
Our part that looks so hard and hopeless, if we will.
9.
Poor, puny mortals that we are,
Clinging to reeds, and ropes of sand,
'Twere better done, 'twere braver far,
Unsheltered and upright to stand,
The free soul at its own command;
In Him- whate'er He be — to trust
Who holds us in His mighty hand,
And guides each star and grain of dust —
Or to renounce all hope and comfort, if we must.
10.
When mercury sinks and winds are foul,
When mists are thick and skies are black,
And hurricanes that shriek and howl,
And wild seas, leaping like a pack
Of hungry wolves upon thy track,
Smother the deck with spume and spray —
Thou, quiet in the dreadful wrack,
Keeping thy watch, dost stand at bay,
Unshaken by one thought of danger or dismay.
11.
Then why, in life's disastrous hours,
Shall we not face the storm and stress
Of those dark destinies and powers,
Those strong fates, that so hardly press
Upon our lonely littleness?
With timbers sound and thou to guide,
Thy ship will live through her distress.
Shall we not also safely ride,
If hearts be stout and true, whatever may betide?
12.
Or if, indeed, we have to meet
The worst that e'er stout heart befell —
If we must suffer sore defeat,
O'erwhelming, irresistible —
Shall we not bear that test as well?
Shall we not die without disgrace?
No force of anguish can compel
Brave men to turn to mean and base,
And all that fate can bring brave men should dare to face.
13.
If, suddenly, some dire mischance —
Collision, cyclone, fire — should mock
Thy keen and sleepless vigilance;
If there should come, unwarned, the shock
Of shattering hull on sunken rock —
If death, in fog, or flood, or flame,
Upon thy cabin door should knock —
Thy native righteousness would shame
The men who boast most loudly of the Christian name.
14.
“The women first!” thy voice would cry
Above the roar of wind and wave;
And thou, the last, would'st calmly die,
Intrepid, resolute, and brave,
All them that trusted thee to save.
If thou could'st see rewards in store —
A martyr's crown beyond the grave —
If all heaven beckoned thee before,
Or fear of hell-fire drove thee — thou could'st do no more.
15.
Art thou, in thy lone- handed fight,
That fails to serve thee, but succeeds
In victory for the true and right,
Beneath the soul that only heeds
The cry of its own lower needs? —
That shelters, trembling, from the fray
In privilege of pleasant creeds,
That are but systems of a day,
From age to age new- made, outworn, and cast away?
16.
Are we not strong enough to take
The course by conscience marked so plain? —
Faithful till death, for manhood's sake,
Unspurred by coward fear of pain,
Unbribed by hope of selfish gain.
Must soaring progress sink and fall?
And is all history writ in vain?
Is life a thing so poor and small?
And is the great design a muddle after all?
17.
Standing in this tremendous space
Of starlit sky and whispering sea,
With my great Maker face to face,
His countless worlds surrounding me,
Eternity — Infinity —
Humble, but confident, I dare
To let these bitter questions be.
We, too, are creatures of His care.
The voice that called us forth forbids us to despair.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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‘O Holy Spirit’ Prayer
O Holy Spirit, dwell in me,
And drive away the evil ones,
So that I’m freed from temptations,
And concentrate on work for God.
O Holy Spirit, be my guide,
All through my earthly life till death,
And fill my soul with grace enough,
That I don’t veer from righteousness.
O Holy Spirit, protect me,
From foes that plan my destruction,
And block my progress, here on earth,
And make my mind crestfallen fast.
O Holy Spirit, watch o’er me,
All night and day and when I’m ill,
And make my heart and mind steadfast,
So that, I tread the road to God.
O Holy Spirit, inspire me
To follow conscience without fail,
In matters that can confuse minds,
Despite my knowledge and wisdom.
O Holy Spirit, be with me,
Consoling when grief springs surprise,
And when my mind is much disturbed,
And drives me to sin’s ravines deep.
O Holy Spirit, be my strength,
In everything I do for God,
And earn my heaven, while on earth,
And fetch more souls for God’s abode.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 3-1-2009
poem by John Celes
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Out of the…is Born a …
Out of the mire is born a gorgeous flower;
Out of the noise is born a dead silence;
Out of the storm is born, calm!
Out of the strife is born a pleasant life;
Out of the filth is born flora, fauna;
Out of the chaos is born clarity.
Out of the exercise is born a healthy body;
Out of the training is born wisdom;
Out of the learning is born a scholar!
Out of the confession is born a soul afilled with grace;
Out of the Holy Book is born the word of God;
Out of the prayers is born answers from God!
Out of the rain is born the verdure shoots;
Out of the sun is born the growing plants;
Out of the dawn is born a lovely day;
Out of the dusk is born a quiet night!
Out of the hunger is born an appetite;
Out of the dainty food is born satiety;
Out of the wine is born inebriety.
Out of the fasting is born controlled senses;
Out of the inhibition is born a civilized person;
Out of the nature’s furies is born forbearance;
Out of the war is born a newer peace.
Out of the mistakes done is born a new resolve;
Out of the struggle is born a long-lasting freedom;
Out of the perseverance is born an accomplishment.
Out of the light is born a new day on earth;
Out of the night is born a starry sky;
Out of the dark clouds is born an aureole moon.
Out of the boredom is born a life of joy;
Out of the trials, travail is born a mind of steel;
Out of the woes is born a content heart!
Out of the parent’s love is born a loving child;
Out of the love of God is born forgiveness of sins;
Out of the mercy of God is born a soul for heaven!
poem by John Celes
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Christmas Antiphones
I -- In Church
Thou whose birth on earth
Angels sang to men,
While thy stars made mirth,
Saviour, at thy birth,
This day born again;
As this night was bright
With thy cradle-ray,
Very light of light,
Turn the wild world's night
To thy perfect day.
God whose feet made sweet
Those wild ways they trod,
From thy fragrant feet
Staining field and street
With the blood of God;
God whose breast is rest
In the time of strife,
In thy secret breast
Sheltering souls opprest
From the heat of life;
God whose eyes are skies
Love-lit as with spheres
By the lights that rise
To thy watching eyes,
Orbed lights of tears;
God whose heart hath part
In all grief that is,
Was not man's the dart
That went through thine heart,
And the wound not his?
Where the pale souls wail,
Held in bonds of death,
Where all spirits quail,
Came thy Godhead pale
Still from human breath -
Pale from life and strife,
Wan with manhood, came
Forth of mortal life,
Pierced as with a knife,
Scarred as with a flame.
Thou the Word and Lord
In all time and space
Heard, beheld, adored,
With all ages poured
Forth before thy face,
Lord, what worth in earth
Drew thee down to die?
What therein was worth,
Lord, thy death and birth?
What beneath thy sky?
Light above all love
By thy love was lit,
And brought down the Dove
Feathered from above
With the wings of it.
From the height of night,
Was not thine the star
That led forth with might
By no worldly light
Wise men from afar?
Yet the wise men's eyes
Saw thee not more clear
Than they saw thee rise
Who in shepherd's guise
Drew as poor men near.
Yet thy poor endure,
And are with us yet;
Be thy name a sure
Refuge for thy poor
Whom men's eyes forget.
Thou whose ways we praised,
Clear alike and dark,
Keep our works and ways
This and all thy days
Safe inside thine ark.
Who shall keep thy sheep,
Lord, and lose not one?
Who save one shall keep,
Lest the shepherds sleep?
Who beside the Son?
From the grave-deep wave,
From the sword and flame,
Thou, even thou, shalt save
Souls of king and slave
Only by thy Name.
Light not born with morn
Or her fires above,
Jesus virgin-born,
Held of men in scorn,
Turn their scorn to love.
Thou whose face gives grace
As the sun's doth heat,
Let thy sunbright face
Lighten time and space
Here beneath thy feet.
Bid our peace increase,
Thou that madest morn;
Bid oppressions cease;
Bid the night be peace;
Bid the day be born.
II--OUTSIDE CHURCH
We whose days and ways
All the night makes dark,
What day shall we praise
Of these weary days
That our life-drops mark?
We whose mind is blind,
Fed with hope of nought;
Wastes of worn mankind,
Without heart or mind,
Without meat or thought;
We with strife of life
Worn till all life cease,
Want, a whetted knife,
Sharpening strife on strife,
How should we love peace?
Ye whose meat is sweet
And your wine-cup red,
Us beneath your feet
Hunger grinds as wheat,
Grinds to make you bread.
Ye whose night is bright
With soft rest and heat,
Clothed like day with light,
Us the naked night
Slays from street to street.
Hath your God no rod,
That ye tread so light?
Man on us as God,
God as man hath trod,
Trod us down with might.
We that one by one
Bleed from either's rod.
What for us hath done
Man beneath the sun,
What for us hath God?
We whose blood is food
Given your wealth to feed,
From the Christless rood
Red with no God's blood,
But with man's indeed;
How shall we that see
Nightlong overhead
Life, the flowerless tree,
Nailed whereon as we
Were our fathers dead -
We whose ear can hear,
Not whose tongue can name,
Famine, ignorance, fear,
Bleeding tear by tear
Year by year of shame,
Till the dry life die
Out of bloodless breast,
Out of beamless eye,
Out of mouths that cry
Till death feed with rest -
How shall we as ye,
Though ye bid us, pray?
Though ye call, can we
Hear you call, or see,
Though ye show us day?
We whose name is shame,
We whose souls walk bare,
Shall we call the same
God as ye by name,
Teach our lips your prayer?
God, forgive and give,
For His sake who died?
Nay, for ours who live,
How shall we forgive
Thee, then, on our side?
We whose right to light
Heaven's high noon denies,
Whom the blind beams smite
That for you shine bright,
And but burn our eyes,
With what dreams of beams
Shall we build up day,
At what sourceless streams
Seek to drink in dreams
Ere they pass away?
In what street shall meet,
At what market-place,
Your feet and our feet,
With one goal to greet,
Having run one race?
What one hope shall ope
For us all as one
One same horoscope,
Where the soul sees hope
That outburns the sun?
At what shrine what wine,
At what board what bread,
Salt as blood or brine,
Shall we share in sign
How we poor were fed?
In what hour what power
Shall we pray for morn,
If your perfect hour,
When all day bears flower,
Not for us is born?
III--BEYOND CHURCH
Ye that weep in sleep,
Souls and bodies bound,
Ye that all night keep
Watch for change, and weep
That no change is found;
Ye that cry and die,
And the world goes on
Without ear or eye,
And the days go by
Till all days are gone;
Man shall do for you,
Men the sons of man,
What no God would do
That they sought unto
While the blind years ran.
Brotherhood of good,
Equal laws and rights,
Freedom, whose sweet food
Feeds the multitude
All their days and nights
With the bread full-fed
Of her body blest
And the soul's wine shed
From her table spread
Where the world is guest,
Mingling me and thee,
When like light of eyes
Flashed through thee and me
Truth shall make us free,
Liberty make wise;
These are they whom day
Follows and gives light
Whence they see to slay
Night, and burn away
All the seed of night.
What of thine and mine,
What of want and wealth,
When one faith is wine
For my heart and thine
And one draught is health?
For no sect elect
Is the soul's wine poured
And her table decked;
Whom should man reject
From man's common board?
Gods refuse and choose,
Grudge and sell and spare;
None shall man refuse,
None of all men lose,
None leave out of care.
No man's might of sight
Knows that hour before;
No man's hand hath might
To put back that light
For one hour the more.
Not though all men call,
Kneeling with void hands,
Shall they see light fall
Till it come for all
Tribes of men and lands.
No desire brings fire
Down from heaven by prayer,
Though man's vain desire
Hang faith's wind-struck lyre
Out in tuneless air.
One hath breath and saith
What the tune shall be -
Time, who puts his breath
Into life and death,
Into earth and sea.
To and fro years flow,
Fill their tides and ebb,
As his fingers go
Weaving to and fro
One unfinished web.
All the range of change
Hath its bounds therein,
All the lives that range
All the byways strange
Named of death or sin.
Star from far to star
Speaks, and white moons wake,
Watchful from afar
What the night's ways are
For the morning's sake.
Many names and flames
Pass and flash and fall,
Night-begotten names,
And the night reclaims,
As she bare them, all.
But the sun is one,
And the sun's name Right;
And when light is none
Saving of the sun,
All men shall have light.
All shall see and be
Parcel of the morn;
Ay, though blind were we,
None shall choose but see
When that day is born.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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His Youth
Dying? I am not dying. Are you mad?
You think I need to ask for heavenly grace?
\I\ think \you\ are a fiend, who would be glad
To see me struggle in death's cold embrace.
'But, man you lie! for I am strong-in truth
Stronger than I have been in years; and soon
I shall feel young again as in my youth,
My glorious youth-life's one great priceless boon.
'O youth, youth, youth! O God, that golden time,
When proud and glad I laughed the hours away.
Why, there's no sacrifice (perhaps no crime)
I'd pause at, could it make me young to-day.
'But I'm not \old\! I grew-just ill, somehow;
Grew stiff of limb, and weak, and dim of sight.
It was but sickness. I am better now,
Oh, vastly better, ever since last night.
'And I could weep warm floods of happy tears
To think my strength is coming back at last,
For I have dreamed of such an hour for years,
As I lay thinking of my glorious past.
'You shake your head? Why, man, if you were sane
I'd strike you to my feet, I would, in truth.
How dare you tell me that my hopes are vain?
How dare you say I have outlived my youth?
''In heaven I may regain it?' Oh, be still!
I want no heaven but what my glad youth gave.
Its long, bright hours, its rapture and its thrill-
O youth, youth, youth! it is my \youth\ I crave.
'There is no heaven! There's nothing but a deep
And yawning grave from which I shrink in fear.
I am not sure of even rest or sleep;
Perhaps we lie and \think\, as I have here.
'Think, think, think, think, as we lie there and rot,
And hear the young above us laugh in glee.
How dare you say I'm dying! \I am not\.
I would curse God if such a thing could be.
'Why, see me stand! why, hear this strong, full breath-
Dare you repeat that silly, base untruth?'
A cry-a fall-the silence known as death
Hushed his wild words. Well, has he found his youth?
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Looking Forward
How busily those little fingers soft
That within mine own are clasped so oft
Have been, throughout this bright summer day,
With pebbles and shells and leaves at play.
They have sought birds’ nests, plucked many a flower,
Have decked with mosses the garden bower,
Built tiny boats, without helm to steer,
Yet floated them safe o’er the lakelet clear.
Ah! a time will come, and that ere long,
When those soft hands will grow firm and strong;
When they’ll fling all boyish toys aside
In the dawning strength of manhood’s pride;
Disdaining the prizes, the treasures gay,
That they seize with such eager haste to-day;
And parting with youth’s joys, hopes and fears,
Seek to grasp the aims of manhood’s years.
Be it, then, thy care, my gentle boy,
That new-born strength to well employ;
Thine hand to raise in defence of right,
To protect the weak ’gainst unjust might;
Or in steadfast toil to spend its power,
That toil—our birthright, our earthly dower—
A God-given law from which none are free,
Whether of lofty or low degree.
And that childish voice, so sweet and clear,
That like music falls on my charmed ear,
Waking the echoes with laugh and song,
’Mid wood and field through the hours long;
Mocking the warbling bird in yon tree,
Or lisping thy prayers beside my knee,
When thy voice shall thrill with a deeper tone,
Say, how wilt thou use it, my child, my own?
To defend the cause of each sacred truth
Thou hast learned to prize in thy early youth,
In kindly word to the sad, the poor,
To those whose cross is hard to endure;
Wilt thou raise it in telling thy Maker’s praise,
In winning souls to His love and ways?
But never in proud or unholy strife,
Or in words with wrong to a brother rife.
And thy guileless heart whose truth, my boy,
Is to me a source of the purest joy,
In whose sinless depths I can plainly see,
That as yet from all thought of ill ’tis free;
When manhood’s down shall have clothed thy cheek,
When pleasure shall tempt and passion speak,
When beset by snares that have others beguiled,
Ah! what wilt thou do with thy heart, my child?
Guard it as treasure of price untold,
In value beyond earth’s gems and gold,
Guard it from breath, from shadow, of sin—
No tempter must foothold gain therein.
Let love of thy God and love of thy kind,
Like tendrils around it closely wind;
Blending those feelings of purest worth
With love for Canada, land of thy birth.
If my prayer be answered, with tranquil breast
I shall go content to my final rest,
When death’s icy finger has touched the brow
That bends above thee so fondly now:
Till then, I will daily ask of Heaven
That, in manhood, it may to thee be given
To devote thy voice, thy heart and thy hand,
To God, thy kind, and thy native land.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Midnight
1.
The night is clear and still. The moon rides high.
The green leaves whisper where the soft winds blow.
Above, the stars shine in a sapphire sky —
The city sleeps below.
2.
Sleeps? Nay. The million- fibred heart is wrung
With wild desire and ceaseless pain and fear.
Could its dumb anguish find a fitting tongue,
The very dead would hear.
3.
Under these quiet roofs, this silvery haze,
How many a captive spirit wakes and weeps!
How many a sorrow, hid from human gaze,
Each shadowy dwelling keeps!
4.
The struggling men, the lonely maids unwed,
The desolate mothers and the martyred wives,
The starving little ones that cry for bread,
Still live their suffering lives.
5.
Though moon shines fair and winds are breathing low —
Though the great dream-like city lies in light —
The smoke of all that seething human woe
Darkens my mind to- night.
6.
Brothers, for whom the world can find no place —
Brothers and sisters, born to want and wrong —
Born weak and maimed, to run a hopeless race
Against the hale and strong —
7.
How can I rest while they are racked with pain?
While they toil on with toil that cannot cease?
While hungry children wail for bread in vain,
How can I sleep in peace?
8.
Ah, hapless fate! To hope, to fail, to spend,
From chilling dawn till midnight shadows fall;
Perchance to gain no haven at the end —
No new world — after all!
9.
When poor, brief hopes and joys have passed away —
When the long toil is done and pain is past —
To reach the limit of life's little day,
And find naught else, at last
10.
When strength is spent, when soul and spirit sink —
With helpless hands outstretched and nerveless brain —
To stand alone upon that dreadful brink
And cry for light in vain!
11.
Poor mortal wanderers in immortal realms,
For whom no staff avails, no beacons shine!
My kindred soul their burden overwhelms —
My brothers' woes are mine.
12.
For me the night has come — the day is done —
A wall of darkness hides both sea and shore;
My little lamps have failed me, one by one —
I grope and crawl no more.
13.
Where am I? — oh, where am I? I can feel —
To feel my pain — but neither hear nor see;
My heart is faint, my brain begins to reel —
O God, speak Thou to me!
14.
Help me! Or, in Thy pity, take me hence
While feeling heart and thinking brain are whole —
Or give me any rag of carnal sense
To wrap my naked soul.
15.
Some common cloak of vulgar hopes and fears,
Some earth- spun veil, that shall be warm and stout
To keep this infinite Silence from mine ears —
To shut this Darkness out!
16.
The mocking moon shines on. The flowers are sweet.
The night is still. The winds are breathing balm.
The silver city clustered at my feet
Seems bathed in light and calm.
17.
But I? — I choke in this grief- laden air.
I turn and weep — I close my window now.
One voice breaks forth from my profound despair —
Beloved, where art thou?
18.
She sleeps. She stirs. She hears the lightest fall
Of my hushed footsteps on her chamber floor.
Her spirit answers to my spirit's call,
And I take heart once more.
19.
She draws me down upon that faithful breast;
I clasp her close — those sweetest lips I kiss —
And soul and body, in her arms at rest,
Swim in deep seas of bliss.
20.
She makes me strong with stronger Fate to cope —
Fresh fire to mine her beating pulses give.
O my true mate, in thee alone I hope!
In thee alone I live!
21.
O love, till blood is cold and brain is dust,
I can fight on — if thou wilt fight with me —
If I can shelter in thy truth and trust,
And bear life's woes with thee!
poem by Ada Cambridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Forest Scene
As I went down a forest place
At the closing of the year
To find me peace, and gather grace
In this green gladness here.
I saw a scene I knew of old,
In many a year gone by
A loveliness to have and hold
Here, with the gully waters cold,
And the bland, blue peeping sky.
And I saw the blue wrens trooping near,
And I heard the thrushes call,
And found surcease from worldly fear
For a peace was over all.
And my mind went back to long ago,
For here was a scene I knew
Where the gums and ancient tree ferns grow,
And the ever-lasting waters flow,
And life yields little new.
And I thought of the world - of the world of men,
Who ever seek them change,
And haste, and hectic, haste again
To a goal beyond their range.
And I heard the thrush and the blue wren there
Fluting their songs of glee
For them this world was passing fair,
And they found content and gladness there.
Why came not peace to me?
Then I saw life, as men see life
I who am but a man;
And I dreamed of a scene devoid of strife,
Built on the good God's plan.
And I came me back from that forest place,
With a dream to have and hold,
Of men with naught but life to face,
Of men grown young in simple grace,
And the birds and the bush grown old!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Peace
Peace (it's what I prayer for)
Peace (oh my)
Peace
Peace (all around the world)
Peace (it's what I pray for)
Peace (oh my)
Peace
Peace (hurry)
Come on in this house children
The war has started
Light the candles right now
It's about to be darkness, oh yeah
There's no telling when the sun will shine again, no
When it's over there's a question asked
Who wins? Who wins?
Spirit (ooh)
Through the land (ooh)
Spirit of peace (ooh)
Oh yeah (ooh)
Spirit move (ooh)
Oh move (ooh)
Oh yeah (ooh)
Heaven send down (ooh)
Peace (it's what I prayer for)
Peace (oh my)
Peace
Peace (all around the world)
Peace (it's what I pray for)
Peace (oh my)
Peace
Peace (hurry)
Turn your head, close your eyes
There's people out there dying, oh
With so much wealth in the land
Why is this thing staving? Oh
As I look over this place
There's so much hatred
If I could I'd pack my bags
And hitch hike to heaven, yeah
Spirit move (ooh)
Oh move (ooh)
Spirit move (ooh)
All through the land (ooh)
Won't you move (ooh)
Oh move, oh move, oh move (ooh)
Oh move, yeah (ooh)
This is what I prayer for (ooh)
Peace (for peace)
Peace (all around the world)
Peace (whoa)
Peace (I pray for peace)
Peace (oh peace)
Peace (oh peace)
Peace (heaven shine your light)
Peace
Shine your light on me
Shine your light on me (let it shine)
Shine your light on me (oh)
Shine your light on me (shine your light)
Shine your light on me (on me)
Shine your light on me (for the World)
Shine your light on me (to see) (pray for me...)
Shine your light on me (let it shine)
Shine your light on me (real bright)
Shine your light on me (through the day)
Shine your light on me (through the night)
Shine your light on me (and send us your peace)
Peace (that's what I pray for)
Peace (oh my)
Peace (oh)
Peace (all around the World)
Peace (it's what I pray for)
Peace (peace)
Peace (peace)
Peace (all around the World)
Peace (peace for the children)
Peace (peace for the land)
Peace (peace for all women)
Peace (and peace for all men)
Peace (put peace in our hearts)
Peace (let us know you care)
Peace (take the storm away)
Peace (send your peace everywhere) (shine your light on me)
Peace (in the valleys) (shine your light on me)
Peace (on the land) (shine your light on me)
Peace (in the homes) (shine your light on me)
Peace (oh yeah) (shine your light on me)
Peace (in Somalia) (shine your light on me)
Peace (Liberia) (shine your light on me)
Peace (Etheopia) (shine your light on me)
Peace (all of Africa) (shine your light on me)
Peace (our soldiers) (shine your light on me)
Peace (the prisons) (shine your light on me)
Peace (the nations) (shine your light on me)
Peace (religion) (shine your light on me)
Peace (the churches) (shine your light on me)
Peace (the community) (shine your light on me)
Peace (justice) (shine your light on me) (send your peace)
Peace (peace) (shine your light on me) (oh heaven, send it down to me)
Peace (then ourselves) (shine your light on me)
Peace (peace for wars) (shine your light on me) (send your peace)
Peace (peace in relationships) (shine your light on me) (oh heaven, send it down to me)
Peace (peace in the brother hood) (shine your light on me) (send your peace)
Peace (oh peace) (shine your light on me) (oh heaven, send it down to me)
Peace (oh peace) (shine your light on me)
Peace (oh peace) (shine your light on me) (send your peace) (oh heaven, send it down to me)
Peace (oh peace) (shine your light on me)
Peace (oh peace) (shine your light on me) (for heavens)
Peace (oh peace) (shine your light on me)
Peace (oh peace) (shine your light on me) (send your peace) (oh heaven, send it down to me)
Shine your light on me (oh heaven) (send your peace, send it down to me)
Shine your light on me (your peace)
Shine your light on me (oh heaven) (send your peace, send it down to me)
Shine your light on me (your peace)
Shine your light on me (your peace)
Shine your light on me (oh heaven)
Shine your light on me (oh heaven) (send your peace, send it down to me)
song performed by by R. Kelly
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Learn
Learn, learn, learn,—
Our beautiful world is not a field for sheep;
Not just a place wherein to laugh and weep,
To eat and drink, to dance and sigh and sleep,
And then to moulder into senseless dust.
Learn, learn, learn,—
Look up and learn—you cannot look too high!
Not for the earthly wealth which brains can buy,
Not for the sake of gold and luxury—
Treasures corrupted by the moth and rust.
Learn, learn, learn,—
As one in whom the Lord has breathed His breath,
And aye redeemèd from the power of death—
Not as the dumb brute-beast that perisheth,
Not as a soulless, thoughtless, thankless clod.
Learn, learn, learn,—
With love and awe and patience—not in haste;
Drink deeply,—do not pass by with a taste;
O make your land a garden, not a waste!—
Your mind bright, to reflect the face of God.
Learn, learn, learn,—
The mystic beauty and the truth of life;
Search out the treasures whereof earth is rife,
Search on all sides, with pain and prayer and strife;
Search even into darkness. Do not fear.
Learn, learn, learn,—
With a true, steadfast heart, lay up your hoard;
God will sort out the treasures you have stored,
And set them in His bright light, afterward.
He will make all your difficulties clear.
Learn, learn, learn,—
Death is no breaking at a certain place;
We only pause there for a little space.
And then—you would not shame Him to His face?—
You, in His Image and own Likeness made!
Learn, learn, learn,—
Walk with wide-open eyes and reverent heart.
Worship as God the beautiful in art.
Though you see now but dimly, and in part,
All shall be clear in time. Be not afraid.
poem by Ada Cambridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Writer's Dream
A writer wrote of the hearts of men, and he followed their tracks afar;
For his was a spirit that forced his pen to write of the things that are.
His heart grew tired of the truths he told, for his life was hard and grim;
His land seemed barren, its people cold—yet the world was dear to him;—
So he sailed away from the Streets of Strife, he travelled by land and sea,
In search of a people who lived a life as life in the world should be.
And he reached a spot where the scene was fair, with forest and field and wood,
And all things came with the seasons there, and each of its kind was good;
There were mountain-rivers and peaks of snow, there were lights of green and gold,
And echoing caves in the cliffs below, where a world-wide ocean rolled.
The lives of men from the wear of Change and the strife of the world were free—
For Steam was barred by the mountain-range and the rocks of the Open Sea.
And the last that were born of a noble race—when the page of the South was fair—
The last of the conquered dwelt in peace with the last of the victors there.
He saw their hearts with the author’s eyes who had written their ancient lore,
And he saw their lives as he’d dreamed of such—ah! many a year before.
And ‘I’ll write a book of these simple folk ere I to the world return,
‘And the cold who read shall be kind for these—and the wise who read shall learn.
‘Never again in a song of mine shall a jarring note be heard:
‘Never again shall a page or line be marred by a bitter word;
‘But love and laughter and kindly hours will the book I’ll write recall,
‘With chastening tears for the loss of one, and sighs for their sorrows all.
‘Old eyes will light with a kindly smile, and the young eyes dance with glee—
‘And the heart of the cynic will rest awhile for my simple folk and me.’
The lines ran on as he dipped his pen—ran true to his heart and ear—
Like the brighter pages of memory when every line is clear.
The pictures came and the pictures passed, like days of love and light—
He saw his chapters from first to last, and he thought it grand to write.
And the writer kissed his girlish wife, and he kissed her twice for pride:
‘’Tis a book of love, though a book of life! and a book you’ll read!’ he cried.
He was blind at first to each senseless slight (for shabby and poor he came)
From local ‘Fashion’ and mortgaged pride that scarce could sign its name.
What dreamer would dream of such paltry pride in a scene so fresh and fair?
But the local spirit intensified—with its pitiful shams—was there;
There were cliques wherever two houses stood (no rest for a family ghost!)
They hated each other as women could—but they hated the stranger most.
The writer wrote by day and night and he cried in the face of Fate—
‘I’ll cleave to my dream of life in spite of the cynical ghosts that wait.
‘’Tis the shyness born of their simple lives,’ he said to the paltry pride—
(The homely tongues of the simple wives ne’er erred on the generous side)—
‘They’ll prove me true and they’ll prove me kind ere the year of grace be passed,’
But the ignorant whisper of ‘axe to grind!’ went home to his heart at last.
The writer sat by his drift-wood fire three nights of the South-east gale,
His pen lay idle on pages vain, for his book was a fairy tale.
The world-wise lines of an elder age were plain on his aching brow,
As he sadly thought of each brighter page that would never be written now.
‘I’ll write no more!’ But he bowed his head, for his heart was in Dreamland yet—
‘The pages written I’ll burn,’ he said, ‘and the pages thought forget.’
But he heard the hymn of the Open Sea, and the old fierce anger burned,
And he wrenched his heart from its dreamland free as the fire of his youth returned:—
‘The weak man’s madness, the strong man’s scorn—the rebellious hate of youth
‘From a deeper love of the world are born! And the cynical ghost is Truth!’
And the writer rose with a strength anew wherein Doubt could have no part;
‘I’ll write my book and it shall be true—the truth of a writer’s heart.
‘Ay! cover the wrong with a fairy tale—who never knew want or care—
‘A bright green scum on a stagnant pool that will reek the longer there.
‘You may starve the writer and buy the pen—you may drive it with want and fear—
‘But the lines run false in the hearts of men—and false to the writer’s ear.
‘The bard’s a rebel and strife his part, and he’ll burst from his bonds anew,
‘Till all pens write from a single heart! And so may the dream come true.
‘’Tis ever the same in the paths of men where money and dress are all,
‘The crawler will bully whene’er he can, and the bully who can’t will crawl.
‘And this is the creed in the local hole, where the souls of the selfish rule;
‘Borrow and cheat while the stranger’s green, then sneer at the simple fool.
‘Spit your spite at the men whom Fate has placed in the head-race first,
‘And hate till death, with a senseless hate, the man you have injured worst!
‘There are generous hearts in the grinding street, but the Hearts of the World go west;
‘For the men who toil in the dust and heat of the barren lands are best!
‘The stranger’s hand to the stranger, yet—for a roving folk are mine—
‘The stranger’s store for the stranger set—and the camp-fire glow the sign!
‘The generous hearts of the world, we find, thrive best on the barren sod,
‘And the selfish thrive where Nature’s kind (they’d bully or crawl to God!)
‘I was born to write of the things that are! and the strength was given to me.
‘I was born to strike at the things that mar the world as the world should be!
‘By the dumb heart-hunger and dreams of youth, by the hungry tracks I’ve trod—
‘I’ll fight as a man for the sake of truth, nor pose as a martyred god.
‘By the heart of “Bill” and the heart of “Jim,” and the men that their hearts deem “white,”
‘By the handgrips fierce, and the hard eyes dim with forbidden tears!—I’ll write!
‘I’ll write untroubled by cultured fools, or the dense that fume and fret—
‘For against the wisdom of all their schools I would stake mine instinct yet!
‘For the cynical strain in the writer’s song is the world, not he, to blame,
‘And I’ll write as I think, in the knowledge strong that thousands think the same;
‘And the men who fight in the Dry Country grim battles by day, by night,
‘Will believe in me, and will stand by me, and will say to the world, “He’s right!”’
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Cui Bono
1.
Why should we care for storms that rave and rend,
Safe at our household hearth?
Unknowing whence we came, or where we wend,
Why should we ache and toil, and waste and spend,
Treading from no beginning to no end,
An uncrowned martyr's path?
2.
Is it worth while to suffer, when we might,
Like happier men, be blest
With that dull blindness that desires no light,
That peaceful soul that feels no need to fight,
Nor thirsts for liberty, and truth, and right,
But lives its life at rest?
3.
Is it worth while to work, and strive, and learn —
To sow where none may reap?
Is it worth while to rage, and fret, and yearn
For nameless treasure that we cannot earn?
Is it worth while in fever- fires to burn,
While wise men eat and sleep?
4.
Is it worth while to care for praise or blame,
This little time we live,
When purest deeds are oftenest put to shame?
To pant for noble strife and lofty fame,
When gold seems better than a stainless name,
Or all the world can give?
5.
Is it worth while for friendship's gift to sue,
For friendship's joys to crave?
When sordid tests, that bring us ruth and rue,
And sorrowful years, alone discern the clue
That tells us what is false and what is true,
And what we lose or save?
6.
To open wide our sanctuary door
Some welcome guest to greet,
To find, perchance, when we have shown our store,
The sacred places rudely trampled o'er,
Bereaved, profaned, and soiled for evermore
With tread of vulgar feet?
7.
Is it worth while to love — though love find grace
In our belovèd's sight?
To bear a restless heart from place to place,
Hungry for sight of one transcendent face,
That shines our central sun in azure space,
Or leaves our world in night:
8.
And, after all, to gain no more than this
At such a life- long cost —
A taste, a glimpse, the memory of a kiss,
A speechless sense of what diviner bliss,
That might have been, we have contrived to miss —
To know what love has lost?
9.
Is it worth while — O sadder fate! — to heed
The solemn chime that knells
The death hour of an immemorial creed —
A staff of strength become a broken reed —
And never friendlier help in time of need,
Nor surer guide, foretells?
10.
To heed the spirit- voice that bids us take
A strange new road alone;
From gentle slumber and sweet dreams to wake,
And hear the mighty billows boom and break —
The thunder of immortal seas that shake
The earth's foundation- stone?
11.
Is it worth while, so far away as we,
To long, in hope and dread,
For the great unborn Age that is to be —
To pine for light that we shall never see —
To care what course man's life and destiny
May take when we are dead?
12.
Is it worth while to toil in doubt and fear,
Through thorny ways like these,
When they who turn blind eye and heedless ear
To change and portent, and who see nor hear
The pregnant storm that gathers far and near,
Dwell all their days at ease?
13.
To leave the Good whereof we are possest,
To search, in gloom and grief,
Through pathless trouble, for some unknown Best,
And see no goal, and find no place of rest —
Is it worth while, on such a fruitless quest
To waste a life so brief?
14.
Is it worth while to wear out heart and brain?
Ah me, what must be must!
The maddening Mystery cannot be made plain,
And they who seek to solve it seek in vain,
Yet can but seek, in sleepless hope and pain,
Till heart and brain are dust.
poem by Ada Cambridge
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Absolution
THREE months had passed since she had knelt before
The grate of the confessional, and he,
--The priest--had wondered why she came no more
To tell her sinless sins--the vanity
Whose valid reason graced her simple dress--
The prayers forgotten, or the untold beads--
The little thoughtless words, the slight misdeeds,
Which made the sum of her unrighteousness.
She was the fairest maiden in his fold,
With her sweet mouth and musical pure voice,
Her deep grey eyes, her hair's tempestuous gold,
Her gracious graceful figure's perfect poise.
Her happy laugh, her wild unconscious grace,
Her gentle ways to old, or sick, or sad,
The comprehending sympathy she had,
Had made of her the idol of the place.
And when she grew so silent and so sad,
So thin and quiet, pale and hollow-eyed,
And cared no more to laugh and to be glad
With other maidens by the waterside--
All wondered, kindly grieved the elders were,
And some few girls went whispering about,
'She loves--who is it? Let us find it out!'
But never dared to speak of it to her.
But the priest's duty bade him seek her out
And say, 'My child, why dost thou sit apart?
Hast thou some grief? Hast thou some secret doubt?
Come and unfold to me thine inmost heart.
God's absolution can assuage all grief
And all remorse and woe beneath the sun.
Whatever thou hast said, or thought, or done,
The Holy Church can give thy soul relief.'
He stood beside her, young and strong, and swayed
With pity for the sorrow in her eyes--
Which, as she raised them to his own, conveyed
Into his soul a sort of sad surprise--
For in those grey eyes had a new light grown,
The light that only bitter love can bring,
And he had fancied her too pure a thing
For even happy love to dare to own.
Yet all the more he urged on her--'Confess,
And do not doubt some comfort will be lent
By Holy Church thy penitence to bless.
Trust her, my child.' With unconvinced consent
She answered, 'I will come;' and so at last
Out of the summer evening's crimson glow,
With heart reluctant and with footsteps slow
Into the cool great empty church she passed.
'By my own fault, my own most grievous fault,
I cannot say, for it is not!' she said,
Kneeling within the grey stone chapel's vault;
And on the ledge her golden hair was spread
Over the clasping hands that still increased
Their nervous pressure, poor white hands and thin,
While with hot lips she poured her tale of sin
Into the cold ear of the patient priest.
'Love broke upon me in a dream; it came
Without beginning, for to me it seemed
That all my life this thing had been the same,
And never otherwise than as I dreamed.
I only knew my heart, entire, complete,
Was given to my other self, my love--
That I through all the world would gladly move
So I might follow his adorèd feet.
'I dreamed my soul saw suddenly appear
Immense abysses, infinite heights unknown;
Possessed new worlds, new earths, sphere after sphere,
New sceptres, kingdoms, crowns, became my own.
When I had all, all earth, all time, all space,
And every blessing, human and divine,
I hated the possessions that were mine,
And only cared for his belovèd face.
'I dreamed that in unmeasured harmony,
Rain of sweet sounds fell on my ravished sense,
And thrilled my soul with swelling ecstasy,
And rose to unimagined excellence.
And while the music bade my heart rejoice,
And on my senses thrust delicious sway,
I wished the perfect melody away,
And in its place longed for his worshipped voice.
'And at the last I felt his arms enfold,
His kisses crown my life--his whispered sighs
Echo my own unrest--his spirit hold
My spirit powerless underneath his eyes,
My face flushed with new joy, and felt more fair:
He clasped me close, and cried, 'My own, my own!'
And then I woke in dawn's chill light, alone,
With empty arms held out to empty air.
'I never knew I loved him till that dream
Drew from my eyes the veil and left me wise.
What I had thought was reverence grew to seem
Only my lifelong love in thin disguise.
And in my dream it looked so sinless too,
So beautiful, harmonious, and right;
The vision faded with the morning light,
The love will last as long as I shall do.
'But in the world where I have wept my tears,
My love is sinful and a bitter shame.
How can I bear the never-ending years,
When every night I hear him call my name?
For though that first dream's dear delight is past,
Yet since that night each night I dream him there
With lips caressing on my brow and hair,
And in my arms I hold my heaven fast!'
'Child, have you prayed against it?' 'Have I prayed?
Have I not clogged my very soul with prayer;
Stopped up my ears with sound of praying, made
My very body faint with kneeling there
Before the sculptured Christ, and all for this,
That when my lips can pray no more, and sleep
Shuts my unwilling eyes, my love will leap
To dreamland's bounds, to meet me with his kiss?
'Strive against this?--what profit is the strife?
If through the day a little strength I gain,
At night he comes and calls me 'love' and 'wife,'
And straightway I am all his own again.
And if from love's besieging force my fight
Some little victory have hardly won,
What do I gain? As soon as day is done,
I yield once more to love's delicious might.'
'Avoid him!' 'Ay, in dewy garden walk
How often have I strayed, avoiding him.
And heard his voice mix with the common talk,
Yet never turned his way. My eyes grow dim
With weeping over what I lose by day
And find by night, yet never have to call
My own. O God! is there no help at all--
No hope, no chance, and no escapeful way?'
'And who is he to whom thy love is given?'
'What? Holy Church demands to know his name?
No rest for me on earth, no hope of heaven
Unless I tell it? Ah, for very shame
I cannot--yet why not?--I will--I can!
I have grown mad with brooding on my curse.
Here! Take the name, no better and no worse
My case will be. Father, thou art the man!'
An icy shock shivered through all his frame--
An overwhelming cold astonishment;
But on the instant the revulsion came,
His blood felt what her revelation meant,
And madly rushed along his veins and cried:
'For you too life is possible, and love
No more a word you miss the meaning of,
But all your life's desire unsatisfied.'
Then through his being crept a new strange fear--
Fear of himself, and through himself, for her;
His every fibre felt her presence near,
Disquiet in his breast began to stir.
'Lord Christ,' his soul cried, while his heart beat fast,
'Give strength in this, my hour of utmost need.'
And with the prayer strength came to him indeed,
And with calm voice he answered her at last.
'Child, go in peace! Wrestle, and watch, and pray,
And I will spend this night in prayer for thee,
That God will take thy strange great grief away.
Thou hast confessed thy sin. Absolvo te.'
Silence most absolute a little while,
Then passed the whisper of her trailing gown
Over the knee-worn stones, and soft died down
The dim deserted incense-memoried aisle.
She passed away, and yet, when she was gone,
His heart still echoed her remembered sighs:
What sin unpardonable had he done
That evermore those grey unquiet eyes
Floated between him and the dying day?
How had she grown so desperately dear?
Why did her love-words echo in his ear
Through all the prayers he forced his lips to say?
All night he lay upon the chancel floor,
And coined his heart in tears and prayers, and new
Strange longings he had never known before.
Her very memory so thrilled him through,
That to his being's core a shiver stole
Of utter, boundless, measureless delight,
Even while with unceasing desperate might
His lips prayed for God's armour for his soul!
The moon had bathed the chancel with her light,
But now she crept into a cloud. No ray
Was left to break the funeral black of night
That closely hung around the form that lay
So tempest-tossed within, so still without.
'God! I love her, love her, love her so!
Oh, for one spark of heaven's fire to show
Some way to cast this devil's passion out!
'I cannot choose but love--Thou knowest, Lord--
Yet is my spirit strong to fly from sin,
But oh, my flesh is weak, too weak the word
I have to clothe its utter weakness in!
I am Thy priest, vowed to be Thine alone,
Yet if she came here with those love-dimmed eyes,
How could I turn away from Paradise?
Should I not wreck her soul, and blast my own?
'Christ, by Thy passion, by Thy death for men,
Oh, save me from myself, save her from me!'
And at the word the moon came out again
From her cloud-palace, and threw suddenly
A shadow from the great cross overhead
Upon the priest; and with it came a sense
Of strength renewed, of perfect confidence
In Him who on that cross for men hung dead.
Beneath that shadow safety seemed to lie;
And as he knelt before the altar there,
Beside the King of Heaven's agony
Light seemed all pangs His priest might have to bear--
His grief, his love, his bitter wild regret,
Would they not be a fitting sacrifice,
A well-loved offering, blessed in the eyes
That never scorned a sad heart's offering yet?
But as the ghostly moon began to fade,
And moonlight glimmered into ghostlier dawn,
The shadow that the crucifix had made
With twilight mixed; and with it seemed withdrawn
The peace that with its shadowy shape began,
And as the dim east brightened, slowly ceased
The wild devotion that had filled the priest--
And with full sunlight he sprang up--a man!
'Ten thousand curses on my priestly vow--
The hated vow that held me back from thee!
Down with the cross! no death-dark emblems now!
I have done with death: life wakes for thee and me!'
He tore the cross from out his breast, and trod
The sacred symbol underfoot and cried,
'I am set free, unbound, unsanctified!
I am thy lover--not the priest of God!'
He strode straight down the church and passed along
The grave-set garden's dewy grass-grown slope:
The woods about were musical with song,
The world was bright with youth, and love, and hope;
The flowers were sweet, and sweet his visions were,
The sunlight glittered on the lily's head
And on the royal roses, rich and red,
And never had the earth seemed half so fair.
Soon would he see her--soon would kneel before
Her worshipped feet, and cry, 'I am thine own,
As thou art mine, now, and for evermore!'
And she should kiss the lips that had not known
The kiss of love in any vanished year.
And as he dreamed of his secured delight,
Round the curved road there slowly came in sight
A mourning band, and in their midst a bier.
He hastened to pass on. Why should he heed
A bier--a blot on earth's awakened face?
For to his love-warm heart it seemed indeed
That in sweet summer's bloom death had no place.
Yet still he glanced--a pale concealing fold
Veiled the dead, quiet face--and yet--and yet--
Did he not know that hand, so white and wet?
Did he not know those dripping curls of gold?
'We came to you to know what we should do,
Father: we found her body in the stream,
And how it happed, God knows!' One other knew--
Knew that of him had been her last wild dream--
Knew the full reason of that life-disdain--
Knew how the shame of hopeless love confessed
And unreturned had seemed to stain her breast,
Till only death could make her clean again.
They left her in the church where sunbeams bright
Gilded the wreathèd oak and carven stone
With golden floods of consecrating light;
And here at last, together and alone,
The lovers met, and here upon her hair
He set his lips, and dry-eyed kissed her face,
And in the stillness of the holy place
He spoke in tones of bitter blank despair:
'Oh, lips so quiet, eyes that will not see!
Oh, clinging hands that not again will cling!
This last poor sin may well be pardoned thee,
Since for the right's sake thou hast done this thing.
Oh, poor weak heart, for ever laid to rest,
That could no longer strive against its fate,
For thee high heaven will unbar its gate,
And thou shalt enter in and shalt be blessed.
'The chances were the same for us,' he said,
'Yet thou hast won, and I have lost, the whole;
Thou wouldst not live in sin, and thou art dead--
But I--against thee I have weighed my soul,
And, losing thee, have lost my soul as well.
I have cursed God, and trampled on His cross;
Earth has no measurement for all my loss,
But I shall learn to measure it in hell!'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Shadow And The Light
The fourteen centuries fall away
Between us and the Afric saint,
And at his side we urge, to-day,
The immemorial quest and old complaint.
No outward sign to us is given,--
From sea or earth comes no reply;
Hushed as the warm Numidian heaven
He vainly questioned bends our frozen sky.
No victory comes of all our strife,--
From all we grasp the meaning slips;
The Sphinx sits at the gate of life,
With the old question on her awful lips.
In paths unknown we hear the feet
Of fear before, and guilt behind;
We pluck the wayside fruit, and eat
Ashes and dust beneath its golden rind.
From age to age descends unchecked
The sad bequest of sire to son,
The body's taint, the mind's defect;
Through every web of life the dark threads run.
Oh, why and whither? God knows all;
I only know that He is good,
And that whatever may befall
Or here or there, must be the best that could.
Between the dreadful cherubim
A Father's face I still discern,
As Moses looked of old on Him,
And saw His glory into goodness turn!
For He is merciful as just;
And so, by faith correcting sight,
I bow before His will, and trust
Howe'er they seem He doeth all things right.
And dare to hope that Tie will make
The rugged smooth, the doubtful plain;
His mercy never quite forsake;
His healing visit every realm of pain;
That suffering is not His revenge
Upon His creatures weak and frail,
Sent on a pathway new and strange
With feet that wander and with eyes that fail;
That, o'er the crucible of pain,
Watches the tender eye of Love
The slow transmuting of the chain
Whose links are iron below to gold above!
Ah me! we doubt the shining skies,
Seen through our shadows of offence,
And drown with our poor childish cries
The cradle-hymn of kindly Providence.
And still we love the evil cause,
And of the just effect complain
We tread upon life's broken laws,
And murmur at our self-inflicted pain;
We turn us from the light, and find
Our spectral shapes before us thrown,
As they who leave the sun behind
Walk in the shadows of themselves alone.
And scarce by will or strength of ours
We set our faces to the day;
Weak, wavering, blind, the Eternal Powers
Alone can turn us from ourselves away.
Our weakness is the strength of sin,
But love must needs be stronger far,
Outreaching all and gathering in
The erring spirit and the wandering star.
A Voice grows with the growing years;
Earth, hushing down her bitter cry,
Looks upward from her graves, and hears,
'The Resurrection and the Life am I.'
O Love Divine!--whose constant beam
Shines on the eyes that will not see,
And waits to bless us, while we dream
Thou leavest us because we turn from thee!
All souls that struggle and aspire,
All hearts of prayer by thee are lit;
And, dim or clear, thy tongues of fire
On dusky tribes and twilight centuries sit.
Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed thou know'st,
Wide as our need thy favors fall;
The white wings of the Holy Ghost
Stoop, seen or unseen, o'er the heads of all.
O Beauty, old yet ever new!
Eternal Voice, and Inward Word,
The Logos of the Greek and Jew,
The old sphere-music which the Samian heard!
Truth, which the sage and prophet saw,
Long sought without, but found within,
The Law of Love beyond all law,
The Life o'erflooding mortal death and sin!
Shine on us with the light which glowed
Upon the trance-bound shepherd's way.
Who saw the Darkness overflowed
And drowned by tides of everlasting Day.
Shine, light of God!--make broad thy scope
To all who sin and suffer; more
And better than we dare to hope
With Heaven's compassion make our longings poor!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Suggested by Matthew Arnold's Stanzas
That one long dirge-moan sad and deep,
Low, muffled by the solemn stress
Of such emotion as doth steep
The soul in brooding quietness,
Befits our anguished time too well,
Whose Life-march is a funeral knell.
Dirge for a mighty Creed outworn-
Its spirit fading from the earth,
Its mouldering body left forlorn:
Weak idol! feeding scornful mirth
In shallow hearts; divine no more
Save to some ignorant pagan poor;
And some who know how by Its light
The past world well did walk and live,
And feel It even now more bright
Than any lamp mere men can give;
So cling to It with yearning faith,
Yet own It almost quenched in death:
While many who win wealth and power
And honours serving at Its shrine,
Rather than lose their worldly dower
Proclaim their dead thing 'Life divine';
And sacrifice to coward lust
Their own souls' truth, a peoplc's trust.
And will none mourn the mighty Dead,
Pillar of heavenly fire and cloud,
Which through this life's wild desert led
For whole millenniums each grand crowd
Of sages, bards, saints, heroes, all
Whose names we glory to recall?
None mourn Him, dead, with deep-moved soul,
Whom, living, all our sires adored?
None feel the heavy darkness roll
Stifling about us, when the Lord
Leaves us to walk by our own light,
That one pale speck in boundless Night?--
That earthly lamp when sun and star,
When all the heavenly lights are lost:
Does it shed radiance round afar?
Our pathway is by deep gulfs cross'd
It fathoms none. We lift it high:
It casts not one beam on the sky.
If He thus died as no more fit
To lead the modern marcli of thought,
Supreme,-- commanding, guiding it,
With noblest love and wisdom fraught;
He was at least Divine; and none
Of human souls can lead it on.
We pine in our dark living tomb,
Waiting the God-illumined One
Who, only, can disperse the gloom;
Completing what the Dead begun,
Or farther leading us some space
Toward our eternal resting-place.
But Israel wanders shepherdless,
Or gloom-involved unloving lies,
And in despair's stark sinfulness
Reviles the promised Paradise
It cannot reach -- Father divine!
Let us not long thus hopeless pine.
Still the deep dirge-notcs long and low
Breathe forth strange anguish to recall --
Could we forget -- our direst woe:
A proud strong Age fast losing all
Earth has of heaven; bereft of faith;
And living in Eternal Death.
And loudly boastful of such life:
Blinded by our material might,
Absorbed in frantic worldly strife,
Unconscious of the utter Night
Whose palpable and monstrous gloom
Is gathering for our spirits' tomb.
We feel as gods in our own hearts;
Seeming to conquer Time and Space;
Wealth gorging our imperial marts,
Earth pregnant, from the fierce embrace
Our matter-lusting spirits press,
With unexampled fruitfulness.
God, answering well our worldly prayer,
Our hearts' chief prayer through all the hours
Of selfish joy and sordid care,
Comes down to us in golden showers:
God turns to Mammon at our cry;
Our souls wealth-crushed, dross-stifled lie.
Those few, how rich! while this great mass,
Myriads with equal greed for gold,
Sink in such want and woe, alas!
As never can on earth be told:
These starve, and those yet wealthier rise-
Meanwhile in both the spirit dies.
Hear now the thrilling dirge-notes peal
The anguished cry in thunder rolls:-
The few yet left who think and feel,
Who yearn with strenuous soaring souls
For more than earth or time can grant;
Where, where shall they appease their want?
Black disbelief, substantial doubt
Wreathe-blent into one louring cloud
Through which Heaven's light can scarce shine out-
Round all the Faiths: all in such shroud
Fade ghostlike to th' entombing Past:
Our Heaven is wildly overcast.
Yet each Creed, senile, sick, half-dead,
With bitter spite and doting rage
Reviles all others, Whoso, led
By thirst of love to pilgrimage,
Seeks now old God-given Wells of Life,
Finds drought-dry centres of vain strife;
And turns away in blank despair,
To scoff or weep as fits his mood.
0 God in Heaven, hear our prayer!
We know Thou art, Allwise, Allgood,
Yet sink in godless misery:
Oh, teach us how to worship Thee!
PART II
The great Form lies there nerveless still:
But as we fix our longing gaze
It grows in grandest beauty, till
We worship in entranced amaze;
Such holy love and wisdom seem
To be there rapt in heavenly dream
.
Oh, if He may once more awake!
Oh, if it be not death, but sleep!
And He from that dread slumber break
Refreshed and strong, full-powered to sweep
The darkness from our path again;
Once more the Guiding Star of men!
Yet -- though it be death -- view It well.
The brow, how nobly high and broad
What love on those shut lips might well!
This Form sublimely templed God:
And, if not perfect, is a shrine
Approaching well the most divine.
Do not turn hastily away
From mighty death to petty life;
Gaze in deep reverence on the clay
With such a soul's expression rife:
Read here, read long, the features worn
By One incarnate Heavenly-born.
So may we hope to recognise
That Greater One who shall succeed
This death-bound Monarch, who now lies
In mute appealing for our need:
God cannot long desert His earth;
In the Old's death the New has birth.
What say we? -- we know well this truth,
There is no death for the Divine,
Which lives in ever-perfect youth:
The Form alone -- its earthly shrine --
Is subject to earth's mortal sway;
Sickens, and dies, and rots away.
Thus each Form in its turn expires,
No more with all revealed Truth rife,
Which even at that time inspires
Some new and nobler form with life,
Grander and vaster to express
More of Its infinite heavenliness.
Thus has it been since Time's first birth,
Thus must it be for evermore:
Still lie, moth-eaten, on the earth
Old garments which this Spirit wore;
Till, soiled and rent, they were off-thrown,
And wider-flowing robes put on.
They could not grow with His great growth,
Pauseless though slow throughout the years;
And vainly worshippers-so loath
To leave what lengthened use endears --
May still the empty robes adore;
Their virtue was from Him who wore.
Let none say the Divine is dead,
Although this Form be soul-less quite:
The Heavenly Sun doth ever shed
His lifeful heat, His saving light;
Never our earth doth lose His ray,
Save when she turns herself away.
Let none say the Divine is dumb,
Although His voice no more we hear:
It is that we are deaf become.
For measured to each eye and ear
His glory shines, His voice outspeaks;
To each He gives the most it seeks.
Our spirits may for ever grow;
And He will fill them as before,
And still their measure overflow
With His unlessened infinite More:
He gives us all we can receive;
He teaches all we can believe.
The pure can see Him perfect -- pure;
The strong feel Him, Omnipotence;
The wise, All-wise; He is obscure
But to the gross and earth-bound sense:
Alas for us with blinded sight
Who dare to cry, There is no light!
PART III
Nay, ask us not to rise and leave
Him from whom power and life seem gone;
Say not that it is weak to grieve;
Duty does not, now, urge us on:
In vain ye urge; too well we know
We cannot by our own strength go.
Vainly ye choose you Saviours now
Of men, -- however good and wise
Be those your mean faith would endow
With power to which no man can rise:
No best men living lure our faith
From the Divine though veiled in death.
Vainly ye wander every way
Throughout the earth in search of Heaven,
Changing your useless path each day
With each new transient impulse given
By human guides, who still agree
In naught but fallibility.
We should know better from the lore
Of worldly wisdom -- keen mistrust --
On which our minds so love to pore;
Nor leave for any child of dust
This One Divine: to Him adhere
Till the diviner One appear.
My brothers, let us own the truth,
Bitter and mournful though it be, --
That we who spent our dreary youth
In foul and sensual slavery,
Are all too slavish, too unmanned,
For Conquerors of the Promised Land.
In unprogressive wanderings
We plod the desert to and fro;
And fiery serpents' mortal stings,
Earthquake and sword and weary woe
And pestilence deal fearful death
Amongst us for our want of faith.
Far-scattered o'er the Waste forlorn
Our bones shall whiten through the years,
And startle pilgrims yet unborn;
Our noblest captains, priests and seers,
Dark death shall one by one remove,
For lack of wisdom, faith, or love.
Yet be we patient, meek and pure,
Unselfishly resigned to God's
Mysterious judgements; and endure
Our sore scarce-intermitted loads
Of grief and weary pain, imbued
With sternly passive fortitude:
And pray that those who shall succeed
Prove worthy of a happier life
Than we dare ask for as our meed;
That they a constant noble strife
Victorious against Ill may wage,
And gain the glorious heritage.
Cease now to cry and storm, and move,
By such tumultuous toil opprcst
As, without guidance, vain must prove.
When God keeps still can ye not rest?
When He sends night so dark and deep,
Why shrink from renovating sleep?
Sleep, to His care resigned, a space;
That when He rises in His might
To lead our hosts from this dire place,
We may have strength and heart to fight
All evils that would bar our way,
And march unfaltering all the day.
Yes, let us stay in loving grief,
Which patient hope and trust yet cheer,
Silent beside our silent Chief,
Till His Successor shall appear;
Till death's veil fall from off His face,
Or One anointed take His place.
Nay, -- our adoring love should have
More faith than to believe that He,
Before Another comes to save,
Can leave us in blind misery
Without a Guide: God never can
So utterly depart from man.
We will move onward! -- Let us trust
That there is life and saving power
In this dear Form which seems but dust.
Arise, arise! though darkness lower,
Earnest, bold-hearted, cease to mourn;
It shall before our hosts be borne.
Triumphantly He ever led
Our faithful armies while alive;
What though His form be cold and dead,
His Spirit doth that death survive:
We conquer by that Soul this Form
Enshrined, not ill, while free and warm.
Thus men have honoured fellow men,
Who dying left a lofty fame;
And won most glorious victories then
By inspiration of a Name:
If in men's names such life abode,
Shall there not in His, -- Son of God?
A dawn-light creeps throughout the gloom,
Sullenly sinks the storm of wrath;
Life blossoms in our desert tomb;
Mysteriously we find a path
Which leadeth on to Paradise.
Thus to our love's faith He replies!
But, while the dirge still rolls away
In passionate thunders wildly blent
With mournful moanings, let us pray --
Still on our Holy War intent --
'O God, revive the seeming Dead;
Or send Another in His stead!
'The wintry midnight drear is past,
But still the dawn gleams grey and cold;
Dread phantoms haunt each restless blast,
Our stumblings still are manifold:
Oh, let Thy cloudless Sun rise soon,
And flood us with His summer noon!'
poem by James Thomson
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My Spirit
I have often felt alone and foreign
Within this place or world everyone calls home-
Perhaps a part of me had died many years back- although
My spirit lives on and looks upward towards the sky, past midnight
Perhaps to awaken in some other realm- Alive and unafraid,
I see the stars brightly shining against the midnight sky,
Far away but close to me in a unique way-
The rings of Saturn intrigue me and inside of the world of my dreams,
I have become as a dove, lifting my wings
To fly as I continue my fight to
Find a place in this world, as my spirit attentively watches over me-
It has been said that everyone is born with a spirit inside-
I was born with a mind, confused, frightened and divided- although
I was born with a spirit that is strong, brave and wise-
I lift my wings and fly, following the direction my spirit, as
My spirit is my only hope- My hope to find a life for myself.
Free from the apparition of the nightmares of my past-
Inside of my mind I know that if I follow the direction that
My spirit takes- enlightened by the sun, the moon and the stars-
Perhaps in the fondest of dreams, I will reawaken and fly away from my fears, and
Find a place in this world-After all, the stars, the moon and other planets
Are far away, in another realm, and unreachable.
The beauty of a spirit is that it never dies, and as my friend it will always be there,
Watching over me protecting me from harm as
I awaken in rebirth from the horrors of my past and from a distance in thought
I can still follow the mystical beauty
Of the moon and the stars in the midnight sky above me
And I know now that when clouds cover the sky and darkness prevails-
The sun shall always rise, I have found peace of mind, and my spirit lives on…
poem by Claudia Krizay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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