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TO F. J. S.
READ, dear friend, in your dear face Your life's tale told with perfect grace; The river of your life, I trace
Up the sun-chequered, devious bed
Not one quick beat of your warm heart,
But as some lone, wood-wandering child
NDER the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
This be the verse you grave for me:
THE CELESTIAL SURGEON
F I have faltered more or less
In my great task of happiness; If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face; If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not; if morning skies, Books, and my food, and summer rain Knocked on my sullen heart in vain: — Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take And stab my spirit broad awake; Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, Choose thou, before that spirit die, A piercing pain, a killing sin, And to my dead heart run them in!
OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS
UT of the sun, out of the blast, Out of the world, alone I passed Across the moor and through the wood To where the monastery stood. There neither lute nor breathing fife, Nor rumour of the world of life, Nor confidences low and dear, Shall strike the meditative ear. Aloof, unhelpful, and unkind, The prisoners of the iron mind, Where nothing speaks except the hell The unfraternal brothers dwell.
Poor passionate men, still clothed afresh
Whom the clear eyes solicit still
And musing Memory-Hold-the-door
Now to heroic death invite
O to be up and doing, O
With voiceless calls, the ancient earth
Forth from the casemate, on the plain.