Poetry

glory,
Is a space-absorbing life.
We can dream no dream Elysian,
There is no good thing might be,
But some angel has the vision,
But some human soul shall see!

Is thy strait horizon dreary?
Is thy foolish fancy chill?
Change the feet that have grown weary
For the wings that never will.
Burst the flesh, and live the spirit;
Haunt the beautiful and far;
Thou hast all things to inherit,
And a soul for every star.

Christmas-Day, 1878

I think I might be weary of this day
That comes inevitably every year,
The same when I was young and strong and gay,
The same when I am old and growing sere⁠—
I should grow weary of it every year
But that thou comest to me every day.

I shall grow weary if thou every day
But come to me, Lord of eternal life;
I shall grow weary thus to watch and pray,
For ever out of labour into strife;
Take everlasting house with me, my life,
And I shall be new-born this Christmas-day.

Thou art the Eternal Son, and born no day,
But ever he the Father, thou the Son;
I am his child, but being born alway⁠—
How long, O Lord, how long till it be done?
Be thou from endless years to years the Son⁠—
And I thy brother, new-born every day.

The New Year

Be welcome, year! with corn and sickle come;
Make poor the body, but make rich the heart:
What man that bears his sheaves, gold-nodding, home,
Will heed the paint rubbed from his groaning cart!

Nor leave behind thy fears and holy shames,
Thy sorrows on the horizon hanging low⁠—
Gray gathered fuel for the sunset-flames
When joyous in death’s harvest-home we go.

Two Rondels

I

When, in the mid-sea of the night,
I waken at thy call, O Lord,
The first that troop my bark aboard
Are darksome imps that hate the light,
Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight⁠—
Of wraths and cares a pirate horde⁠—
Though on the mid-sea of the night
It was thy call that waked me, Lord.

Then I must to my arms and fight⁠—
Catch up my shield and two-edged sword,
The words of him who is thy word⁠—
Nor cease till they are put to flight;
Then in the mid-sea of the night
I turn and listen for thee, Lord.

II

There comes no voice from thee, O Lord,
Across the mid-sea of the night!
I lift my voice and cry with might:
If thou keep silent, soon a horde
Of imps again will swarm aboard,
And I shall be in sorry plight
If no voice come from thee, my Lord,
Across the mid-sea of the night.

There comes no voice; I hear no word!
But in my soul dawns something bright:⁠—
There is no sea, no foe to fight!
Thy heart and mine beat one accord:
I need no voice from thee, O Lord,
Across the mid-sea of the night.

Rondel

Heart, thou must learn to do without⁠—
That is the riches of the poor,
Their liberty is to endure;
Wrap thou thine old cloak thee about,
And carol loud and carol stout;
Let thy rags fly, nor wish them fewer;
Thou too must learn to do without,
Must earn the riches of the poor!

Why should’st thou only wear no clout?
Thou only walk in love-robes pure?
Why should thy step alone be sure?
Thou only free of fortune’s flout?
Nay, nay! but learn to go without,
And so be humbly, richly poor.

Song

Lighter and sweeter
Let your song be;
And for sorrow⁠—oh cheat her
With melody!

Smoke

Lord, I have laid my heart upon thy altar
But cannot get the wood to burn;
It hardly flares ere it begins to falter
And to the dark return.

Old sap, or night-fallen dew, makes damp the fuel;
In vain my breath would flame provoke;
Yet see⁠—at every poor attempt’s renewal
To thee ascends the smoke!

’Tis all I have⁠—smoke, failure, foiled endeavour,
Coldness and doubt and palsied lack:
Such as I have I send thee!⁠—perfect Giver,
Send thou thy lightning back.

To a Certain Critic

Such guests as you, sir, were not in my mind
When I my homely dish with care designed;
’Twas certain humble souls I would have fed
Who do not turn from wholesome milk and bread:
You came, slow-trotting on the narrow way,
O’erturned the food, and trod it in the clay;
Then low with discoid nostrils sniffing curt,
Cried, “Sorry cook! why, what a mess of dirt!”

Song

She loves thee, loves thee not!
That, that is all, my heart.
Why should she take a part
In every selfish blot,
In every greedy spot
That now doth ache and smart
Because she loves thee not⁠—
Not, not at all, poor heart!

Thou art no such dove-cot
Of virtues⁠—no such chart
Of highways, though the dart
Of love be through thee shot!
Why should she not love not
Thee, poor, pinched, selfish heart?

A Cry

Lord, hear my discontent: all blank I stand,
A mirror polished by thy hand;
Thy sun’s beams flash and flame from me⁠—
I cannot help it: here I stand, there he!
To one of them I cannot say,
Go, and on yonder water play;
Nor one poor ragged daisy can I fashion⁠—
I do not make the words of this my limping passion!
If I should say, Now I will think a thought,
Lo, I must wait, unknowing
What thought in me is growing,
Until the thing to birth be brought!
Nor know I then what next will come
From out the gulf of silence dumb:
I am the door the thing will find
To pass into the general mind!
I cannot say “I think⁠—”
I only stand upon the thought-well’s brink:
From darkness to the sun the water bubbles up⁠—
lift it in my cup.
Thou only thinkest⁠—I am thought;
Me and my thought thou thinkest. Nought
Am I but as a fountain spout
From which thy water welleth out.
Thou art the only one, the all in all.⁠—
Yet when my soul on thee doth call
And thou dost answer out of everywhere,
I in thy allness have my perfect share.

From Home

Some men there are who cannot spare
A single tear until they feel
The last cold pressure, and