Yes, there is one who makes us all lay down
Our mushroom vanities, our speculations,
Our well-set theories and calculations,
Our workman’s jacket or our monarch’s crown!
To him alike the country and the town,
Barbaric hordes or civilized nations,
Men of all names and ranks and occupations,
Squire, parson, lawyer, Jones, or Smith, or Brown!
He stops the carter: the uplifted whip
Falls dreamily among the horses’ straw;
He stops the helmsman, and the gallant ship
Holdeth to westward by another law;
No one will see him, no one ever saw,
But he sees all and lets not any slip.
That Holy Thing
They all were looking for a king
To slay their foes, and lift them high:
Thou cam’st a little baby thing
That made a woman cry.
O son of man, to right my lot
Nought but thy presence can avail;
Yet on the road thy wheels are not,
Nor on the sea thy sail!
My fancied ways why shouldst thou heed?
Thou com’st down thine own secret stair:
Com’st down to answer all my need,
Yea, every bygone prayer!
What Man Is There of You?
The homely words how often read!
How seldom fully known!
“Which father of you, asked for bread,
Would give his son a stone?”
How oft has bitter tear been shed,
And heaved how many a groan,
Because thou wouldst not give for bread
The thing that was a stone!
How oft the child thou wouldst have fed,
Thy gift away has thrown!
He prayed, thou heard’st, and gav’st the bread:
He cried, “It is a stone!”
Lord, if I ask in doubt and dread
Lest I be left to moan,
Am I not he who, asked for bread,
Would give his son a stone?
Bell Upon Organ
It’s all very well,
Said the Bell,
To be the big Organ below!
But the folk come and go,
Said the Bell,
And you never can tell
What sort of person the Organ will blow!
And, besides, it is much at the mercy of the weather
For ’tis all made in pieces and glued together!
But up in my cell
Next door to the sky,
Said the Bell,
I dwell
Very high;
And with glorious go
I swing to and fro;
I swing swift or slow,
I swing as I please,
With summons or knell;
I swing at my ease,
Said the Bell:
Not the tallest of men
Can reach up to touch me,
To smirch me or smutch me,
Or make me do what
I would not be at!
And, then,
The weather can’t cause me to shrink or increase:
I chose to be made in one perfect piece!
O Wind of God
O wind of God, that blowest in the mind,
Blow, blow and wake the gentle spring in me;
Blow, swifter blow, a strong warm summer wind,
Till all the flowers with eyes come out to see;
Blow till the fruit hangs red on every tree,
And our high-soaring song-larks meet thy dove—
High the imperfect soars, descends the perfect love!
Blow not the less though winter cometh then;
Blow, wind of God, blow hither changes keen;
Let the spring creep into the ground again,
The flowers close all their eyes and not be seen:
All lives in thee that ever once hath been!
Blow, fill my upper air with icy storms;
Breathe cold, O wind of God, and kill my cankerworms.
Shall the Dead Praise Thee?
I cannot praise thee. By his instrument
The master sits, and moves nor foot nor hand;
For see the organ-pipes this, that way bent,
Leaning, o’erthrown, like wheat-stalks tempest-fanned!
I well could praise thee for a flower, a dove,
But not for life that is not life in me;
Not for a being that is less than love—
A barren shoal half lifted from a sea!
Unto a land where no wind bloweth ships
Thy wind one day will blow me to my own:
Rather I’d kiss no more their loving lips
Than carry them a heart so poor and prone!
I bless thee, Father, thou art what thou art,
That thou dost know thyself what thou dost know—
A perfect, simple, tender, rhythmic heart,
Beating its blood to all in bounteous flow.
And I can bless thee too for every smart,
For every disappointment, ache, and fear;
For every hook thou fixest in my heart,
For every burning cord that draws me near.
But prayer these wake, not song. Thyself I crave.
Come thou, or all thy gifts away I fling.
Thou silent, I am but an empty grave:
Think to me, Father, and I am a king!
My organ-pipes will then stand up awake,
Their life soar, as from smouldering wood the blaze;
And swift contending harmonies shall shake
Thy windows with a storm of jubilant praise.
One with Nature
I have a fellowship with every shade
Of changing nature: with the tempest hour
My soul goes forth to claim her early dower
Of living princedom; and her wings have stayed
Amidst the wildest uproar undismayed!
Yet she hath often owned a better power,
And blessed the gentle coming of the shower,
The speechless majesty of love arrayed
In lowly virtue, under which disguise
Full many a princely thing hath passed her by;
And she from homely intercourse of eyes
Hath gathered visions wider than the sky,
And seen the withered heart of man arise
Peaceful as God, and full of majesty.
A Year Song
Sighing above,
Rustling below,
Thorough the woods
The winds go.
Beneath, dead crowds;
Above, life bare;
And the besom tempest
Sweeps the air:
Heart, leave thy woe:
Let the dead things go.
Through the brown
Gold doth push;
Misty green
Veils the bush.
Here a twitter,
There a croak!
They are coming—
The spring-folk!
Heart, be not numb;
Let the live things come.
Through the beech
The winds go,
With gentle speech,
Long and slow.
The grass is fine,
And soft to lie in:
The sun doth shine
The blue sky in:
Heart, be alive;
Let the new things thrive.
Round again!
Here art thou,
A rimy fruit
On a bare bough!
Winter comes,
Winter and snow;
And a weary sighing
To fall and go!
Heart, thy hour shall be;
Thy dead will comfort thee.
Song
Why Do the Houses Stand
Why do the houses stand
When they that built them are gone;
When remaineth even of one
That lived there and loved and
