POETRY.
And in Thine house, my prayer hath folded wing; My spirit turned from Thee to things of sense, And found delight in vain imagining.
Ah, cool and quiet places where men pray !
Without, the gentle sound of cawing rooks, Within, the country faces flushed with health, The white smocks bent above the dog-eared books ; Soft breath of mignonette and scented thyme From the warm hands of children sitting by, And through the open door a veil of elm Across the glory of the summer sky ; 'The sound of voices in the shady lane, The trembling beat above some quiet mound,— And here the sun-beams' painting on the wall, The ivy's shimmering shadow on the ground;
And everywhere, a presence, without name, Subtle, ineffable,—a spell, no more,—
Breathing from arch and elm, from flower and groin, Ay, from the trodden stones upon the floor,— A something that we know is not, to-day, A somewhat that gives strength to prayer and song; And if we miss it, as we kneel to pray, Art Thou extreme, 0 Lord, to mark it wrong ?
Nay, for the desolate town was never Thine, Unloveliness bath never part in Thee !
Yet, where gross man has marred Thy handiwork, Souls, that he could not reach, are white and free.
So that I breathe the breath of fragrant lives, And learn that where flowers sicken, hearts grow strong, 'The better man within me cries, "Content !"
Albeit the weaker, whispers still "How long ?"
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