His Lady of the Sonnets Part 7

KEATS

To sing, as thou didst in full throated ease, Sweeter than thine oft-envied nightingale, And with thy singing waken hill and dale Until the many harpstrings of the trees Murmured in strange and old antiphonies; To wander at thy will into the vale Where sleeps Endymion, and tell the tale Of Dian's nymphs or Pan's dear dryades:

Was it, in sooth, too great a price to pay-- The heart-ache and the pa.s.sion and the tears With which G.o.d mixed for thee life's cup of gold?

Against the sadness of thy lot I hold The joy of him who sees and feels and hears Earth's splendour, fulness, music, night and day.

A POET'S PRAYER

Give me pause and time for dreaming; Send me to some quiet place Where the winding water, gleaming, Holds a gla.s.s before my face.

Here within the grind and clamour I forget what I have known; Life and love have lost their glamour, And my heart is turned to stone.

Shrub and bird and beast are mingled With a clumsy dream of man; Lost the ancient art that singled Hoof and brow of brooding Pan!

Strike the rock, release the river, Bid it through the desert go; Let its shallows dance and quiver, And its flood majestic flow;

Till again the rushing rapture Of the poet's soul is mine, With its swift pursuit to capture Visions that are all divine.

WHAT IS RELIGION?

What is Religion?--Word of many creeds Blared forth in streets by solemn Pharisee, And piped in doleful tones on scrannel reeds, Untouched by love or tender sympathy That moves the soldier where the Master bleeds?

What is Religion?--Lofty minster-spires And rich mosaics on the chancel wall; Deep organ-tones, and silver-throated choirs Whose golden Glorias night and morning fall, With sanctus-bell and flares of altar-fires?

What is Religion? Note of bird on bough; The sunlight falling o'er the waving gra.s.s; A child's clear gaze and unashamed brow; The little deeds that, living, come and pa.s.s And are forgot: Religion is, I trow.

What is Religion? Why, who anywhere Stoops down to touch the dusty wayside-flower, And then as tenderly the face of care; Who thus in love lives on from hour to hour Has caught the secret, and has mastered prayer.

A SONG OF SPRING

Little laughter of the gra.s.s; Clapping of soft, tiny hands; Fleeting forms that come and pa.s.s In relays of fairy bands; And the birds upon the wing-- Tell the secret! It is Spring!

In the woods the dryades Hear the sounding pipes of Pan, Leave their temples of the trees And return to haunts of man; This the song they sweetly sing-- Ave! Ave! It is Spring!

Domed with sapphire is the sky; Haze of opal hath the hills; Brown the brooks that rushing by Call to their companion rills; These their joyous welcome bring-- Hail! All hail! For it is Spring!

A FALLEN ANGEL

Out of the light, Into the night, G.o.d, I am falling!

Fashioned of flame, Spent with my shame, G.o.d, I am calling!

All through the day Sin has had sway-- Lost is the token; Evening brings Hurt of my wings, Blackened and broken.

Child of a star, Thine avatar, Drunk from the revel; Who am I, G.o.d,-- Spirit or clod, Angel or devil?

Yet Thou hast made Me Thy sword-blade-- Sheathed, that its brightness Flash up to win, When the last sin Burns into whiteness.

Hand that can smite, Hold the hilt tight, Draw, and strike faster!

Strike with me, Lord!

My soul Thy sword, And Thou its Master.

Strike! till the day Grow from the gray Gloom of the peril; And in the skies Dream-domes arise-- Jacinth and beryl!

A LITANY

For what we to ourselves have done, We who are miracles divine, Flares from a universal sun, Or lees from an Olympian wine; For the abuse of laughter, And tears that follow after; For love betrayed, and hope delayed: Cry we mercy, G.o.d!

For what we to ourselves have said: "Thou hast much goods; peace, O my Soul, Nor fret if beggars cry for bread, And show their rags in hope of dole.

G.o.d giveth thee much pleasure, Want is the poor man's measure!"

For all of these dark heresies: Cry we mercy, G.o.d!

For what we on ourselves have wrought-- Wild havoc with the weird, grotesque, Abortive images of thought, Making of beauty the burlesque; For much pretence in praying; And little heart at playing; For smothered smiles and countless guiles: Cry we mercy, G.o.d!

For casting dice where Jesus bleeds Upon His cross, naked, alone; Unheedful in the noise of creeds Of Him and His last dying moan; For Rahab robed in scarlet, Cursed with the t.i.tle, "Harlot,"

By the decrees of Pharisees: Cry we mercy, G.o.d!

For the delight of out-of-doors Missed in our minsters made of stone, Unmindful that pure incense pours To Thee from wild rose-petals blown Down forest-aisles; that altar fires Burn in the sunset on the hills, And from the pine-wood's ancient spires The varied chime of evening fills All hearts with rapture; for the light Lost on white lilies, and the blue Of heaven wasted, the dear night With her gold stars and silver dew Neglected. Oh, for what we fail To find from life so rich and fair-- The rain, the snow, the sleet, the hail, Summer, and blossom-breathing air; For every useless sorrow, And fears for the to-morrow, Not knowing Thee, great Deity: Cry we mercy, G.o.d!

THE GREAT COMRADE

I hear Thy voice within the world, Thy thunder from the heaven hurled;

I lean and listen to the trees Chanting Thine age-long litanies.

Over white leagues of ice and snow, Through drift and storm I watch Thee go;

Upon the sea's sad surge behold Marks of Thy journeyings manifold.

Where lilies lowly bow the head Some marvel of Thyself is shed;