Excerpt
THE SHEPHERDESS
She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep.Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; She guards them from the steep.She feeds them on the fragrant height, And folds them in for sleep.
She roams maternal hills and bright, Dark valleys safe and deep.Into that tender breast at night The chastest stars may peep.She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep.
She holds her little thoughts in sight, Though gay they run and leap.She is so circumspect and right; She has her soul to keep.She walks—the lady of my delight— A shepherdess of sheep.
“I AM THE WAY”Thou art the Way.Hadst Thou been nothing but the goal, I cannot sayIf Thou hadst ever met my soul.
I cannot see—I, child of process—if there lies An end for me,Full of repose, full of replies.
I’ll not reproachThe way that goes, my feet that stir. Access, approach,Art Thou, time, way, and wayfarer.
VIA, ET VERITAS, ET VITA“You never attained to Him?” “If to attain Be to abide, then that may be.”“Endless the way, followed with how much pain!” “The way was He.”
“WHY WILT THOU CHIDE?”Why wilt thou chide,Who hast attained to be denied? Oh learn, aboveAll price is my refusal, Love. My sacred NayWas never cheapened by the way.Thy single sorrow crowns thee lordOf an unpurchasable word.
Oh strong, Oh pure!As Yea makes happier loves secure, I vow thee thisUnique rejection of a kiss. I guard for theeThis jealous sad monopoly.I seal this honour thine. None dareHope for a part in thy despair.
THE LADY POVERTYThe Lady Poverty was fair:But she has lost her looks of late,With change of times and change of air.Ah slattern, she neglects her hair,Her gown, her shoes. She keeps no stateAs once when her pure feet were bare.
Or—almost worse, if worse can be—She scolds in parlours; dusts and trims,Watches and counts. Oh, is this sheWhom Francis met, whose step was free,Who with Obedience carolled hymns,In Umbria walked with Chastity?
Where is her ladyhood? Not here,Not among modern kinds of men;But in the stony fields, where clearThrough the thin trees the skies appear;In delicate spare soil and fen,And slender landscape and austere.
THE FOLDBehold,The time is now! Bring back, bring backThy flocks of fancies, wild of whim.Oh lead them from the mountain-track— Thy frolic thoughts untold.Oh bring them in—the fields grow dim— And let me be the fold.
Behold,The time is now! Call in, O callThy posturing kisses gone astrayFor scattered sweets. Gather them all To shelter from the cold.Throng them together, close and gay, And let me be the fold!
CRADLE-SONG AT TWILIGHTThe child not yet is lulled to rest. Too young a nurse, the slender NightSo laxly holds him to her breast That throbs with flight.
He plays with her and will not sleep. For other playfellows she sighs;An unmaternal fondness keep Her alien eyes.
THE ROARING FROSTA flock of winds came winging from the North,Strong birds with fighting pinions driving forth With a resounding call!
Where will they close their wings and cease their cries—Between what warming seas and conquering skies— And fold, and fall?
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