RELIGIOUS POEMS

THE CONVENT TRESHOLD

There's blood between us, love, my love,
There's father's blood, there's brother's blood;
And blood's a bar I cannot pass:
I choose the stairs that mount above,
Stair after golden skyward stair,
To city and to sea of glass.
My lily feet are soiled with mud,
With scarlet mud which tells a tale
Of hope that was, of guilt that was,
Of love that shall not yet avail;
Alas, my heart, if I could bare
My heart, this selfsame stain is there:
I seek the sea of glass and fire
To wash the spot, to burn the snare;
Lo, stairs are meant to lift us higher:
Mount with me, mount the kindled stair.

Your eyes look earthward, mine look up.
I see the far-off city grand,
Beyond the hills a watered land,
Beyond the gulf a gleaming strand
Of mansions where the righteous sup;
Who sleep at ease among their trees,
Or wake to sing a cadenced hymn
With Cherubim and Seraphim;
They bore the Cross, they drained the cup,
Racked, roasted, crushed, wrenched limb from limb,
They the offscouring of the world:
The heaven of starry heavens unfurled,
The sun before their face is dim.

You looking earthward, what see you?
Milk-white, wine-flushed among the vines,
Up and down leaping, to and fro,
Most glad, most full, made strong with wines,
Blooming as peaches pearled with dew,
Their golden windy hair afloat,
Love-music warbling in their throat,
Young men and women come and go.

You linger, yet the time is short:
Flee for your life, gird up your strength
To flee; the shadows stretched at length
Show that day wanes, that night draws nigh;
Flee to the mountain, tarry not.
Is this a time for smile and sigh,
For songs among the secret trees
Where sudden blue birds nest and sport?
The time is short and yet you stay:
Today while it is called today
Kneel, wrestle, knock, do violence, pray;
Today is short, tomorrow nigh:
Why will you die? why will you die?

You sinned with me a pleasant sin:
Repent with me, for I repent.
Woe's me the lore I must unlearn!
Woe's me that easy way we went,
So rugged when I would return!
How long until my sleep begin,
How long shall stretch these nights and days?
Surely, clean Angels cry, she prays;
She laves her soul with tedious tears:
How long must stretch these years and years?

I turn from you my cheeks and eyes,
My hair which you shall see no more-
Alas for joy that went before,
For joy that dies, for love that dies.
Only my lips still turn to you,
My livid lips that cry, Repent.
Oh weary life, Oh weary Lent,
Oh weary time whose stars are few.

How should I rest in Paradise,
Or sit on steps of heaven alone?
If Saints and Angels spoke of love
Should I not answer from my throne:
Have pity upon me, ye my friends,
For I have heard the sound thereof:
Should I not turn with yearning eyes,
Turn earthwards with a pitiful pang?
Oh save me from a pang in heaven.
By all the gifts we took and gave,
Repent, repent, and be forgiven:
This life is long, but yet it ends;
Repent and purge your soul and save:
No gladder song the morning stars
Upon their birthday morning sang
Than Angels sing when one repents.

I tell you what I dreamed last night;
A spirit with transfigured face
Fire-footed clomb an infinite space.
I heard his hundred pinions clang,
Heaven-bells rejoicing rang and rang,
Heaven-air was thrilled with subtle scents,
Worlds spun upon their rushing cars:
He mounted shrieking: "Give me light."
Still light was poured on him, more light;
Angels, Archangels he outstripped
Exultant in exceeding might,
And trod the skirts of Cherubim.
Still "Give me light," he shrieked; and dipped
His thirsty face, and drank a sea,
Athirst with thirst it could not slake.

I saw him, drunk with knowledge, take
From aching brows the aureole crown-
His locks writhed like a cloven snake-
He left his throne to grovel down
And lick the dust of Seraphs' feet:
For what is knowledge duly weighed?
Knowledge is strong, but love is sweet;
Yea all the progress he had made
Was but to learn that all is small
Save love, for love is all in all.

I tell you what I dreamed last night:
It was not dark, it was not light,
Cold dews had drenched my plenteous hair
Thro' clay; you came to seek me there.
And "Do you dream of me?" you said.
My heart was dust that used to leap
To you; I answered half asleep:
"My pillow is damp, my sheets are red,
There's a leaden tester to my bed:
Find you a warmer playfellow,
A warmer pillow for your head,
A kinder love to love than mine."
You wrung your hands; while I like lead
Crushed downwards thro' the sodden earth:
You smote your hands but not in mirth,
And reeled but were not drunk with wine.

For all night long I dreamed of you:
I woke and prayed against my will,
Then slept to dream of you again.
At length I rose and knelt and prayed:
I cannot write the words I said,
My words were slow, my tears were few;
But thro' tlie dark my silence spoke
Like thunder. When this morning broke,
My face was pinched, my hair was grey,
And frozen blood was on the sill
Where stifling in my struggle I lay.

If now you saw me you would say:
Where is the face I used to love?
And I would answer: Gone before;
It tarries veiled in paradise.
When once the morning star shall rise,
When earth with shadow flees away
And we stand safe within the door,
Then you shall lift the veil thereof.
Look up, rise up: for far above
Our palms are grown, our place is set;
There we shall meet as once we met
And love with old familiar love.

FLOWERS preach to us if we will hear:-- 
The rose saith in the dewy morn: 
I am most fair; 
Yet all my loveliness is born 
Upon a thorn. 
The poppy saith amid the corn: 
Let but my scarlet head appear 
And I am held in scorn; 
Yet juice of subtle virtue lies 
Within my cup of curious dyes. 
The lilies say: Behold how we 
Preach without words of purity. 
The violets whisper from the shade 
Which their own leaves have made: 
Men scent our fragrance on the air, 
Yet take no heed 
Of humble lessons we would read. 
But not alone the fairest flowers: 
The merest grass 
Along the roadside where we pass, 
Lichen and moss and sturdy weed, 
Tell of His love who sends the dew, 
The rain and sunshine too, 
To nourish one small seed.

I watched a rosebud very long 
Brought on by dew and sun and shower, 
Waiting to see the perfect flower: 
Then, when I thought it should be strong, 
It opened at the matin hour 
And fell at evensong. 
  
I watched a nest from day to day, 
A green nest full of pleasant shade, 
Wherein three speckled eggs were laid: 
But when they should have hatched in May, 
The two old birds had grown afraid 
Or tired, and flew away. 
  
Then in my wrath I broke the bough 
That I had tended so with care, 
Hoping its scent should fill the air; 
I crushed the eggs, not heeding how 
Their ancient promise had been fair: 
I would have vengeance now. 
  
But the dead branch spoke from the sod, 
And the eggs answered me again: 
Because we failed dost thou complain? 
Is thy wrath just? And what if God, 
Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain, 
Should also take the rod? 

VANITY of vanities, the Preacher saith, 
All things are vanity. The eye and ear 
Cannot be filled with what they see and hear. 
Like early dew, or like the sudden breath 
Of wind, or like the grass that withereth, 
Is man, tossed to and fro by hope and fear: 
So little joy hath he, so little cheer, 
Till all things end in the long dust of death. 
To-day is still the same as yesterday, 
To-morrow also even as one of them; 
And there is nothing new under the sun: 
Until the ancient race of Time be run, 
The old thorns shall grow out of the old stem, 
And morning shall be cold and twilight grey.  

By day she woos me, soft, exceeding fair: 
But all night as the moon so changeth she; 
Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy 
And subtle serpents gliding in her hair. 
By day she woos me to the outer air, 
Ripe fruits, sweet flowers, and full satiety: 
But through the night, a beast she grins at me, 
A very monster void of love and prayer. 
By day she stands a lie: by night she stands 
In all the naked horror of the truth 
With pushing horns and clawed and clutching hands. 
Is this a friend indeed; that I should sell 
My soul to her, give her my life and youth, 
Till my feet, cloven too, take hold on hell?

          I

She gave up beauty in her tender youth,
Gave all her hope and joy and pleasant ways;
She covered up her eyes lest they should gaze
On vanity, and chose the bitter truth.
Harsh towards herself, towards others full of ruth,
Servant of servants, little known to praise,
Long prayers and fasts trenched on her nights and days
She schooled herself to sights and sounds uncouth
That with the poor and stricken she might make
A home, until the least of all sufficed
Her wants; her own self learned she to forsake,
Counting all earthly gain but hurt and loss.
So with calm will she chose and bore the cross
And hated all for love of Jesus Christ.

          II

They knelt in silent anguish by her bed,
And could not weep; but calmly there she lay;
All pain had left her; and the sun's last ray
Shone through upon her, warming into red
The shady curtains. In her heart she said:
"Heaven opens; I leave these and go away;
The Bridegroom calls, - shall the Bride seek to stay?"
Then low upon her breast she bowed her head.
O lily flower, O gem of priceless worth,
O dove with patient voice and patient eyes,
O fruitful vine amid a land of dearth,
O maid replete with loving purities,
Thou bowedst down thy head with friends on earth
To raise it with the saints in Paradise.

I TOOK my heart in my hand 
   (O my love, O my love), 
I said: Let me fall or stand, 
   Let me live or die, 
But this once hear me speak 
   (O my love, O my love)-- 
Yet a woman's words are weak; 
   You should speak, not I. 

You took my heart in your hand 
   With a friendly smile, 
With a critical eye you scann'd, 
   Then set it down, 
And said, 'It is still unripe, 
   Better wait awhile; 
Wait while the skylarks pipe, 
   Till the corn grows brown.' 
As you set it down it broke-- 
   Broke, but I did not wince; 
I smiled at the speech you spoke, 
   At your judgement I heard: 
But I have not often smiled 
   Since then, nor question'd since, 
Nor cared for cornflowers wild, 
   Nor sung with the singing bird. 

I take my heart in my hand, 
   O my God, O my God, 
My broken heart in my hand: 
   Thou hast seen, judge Thou. 
My hope was written on sand, 
   O my God, O my God: 
Now let thy judgement stand-- 
   Yea, judge me now. 

This contemn'd of a man, 
   This marr'd one heedless day, 
This heart take thou to scan 
   Both within and without: 
Refine with fire its gold, 
   Purge Thou its dross away-- 
Yea, hold it in Thy hold, 
   Whence none can pluck it out. 

I take my heart in my hand-- 
   I shall not die, but live-- 
Before Thy face I stand; 
   I, for Thou callest such: 
All that I have I bring, 
   All that I am I give, 
Smile Thou and I shall sing, 
   But shall not question much.

Somewhere or other there must surely be
The face not seen, the voice not heard,
The heart that not yet - never yet — ah me!
Made answer to my word.

Somewhere or other, may be near or far;
Past land and sea, clean out of sight;
Beyond the wandering moon, beyond the star
That tracks her night by night.

Somewhere or other, may be far or near;
With just a wall, a hedge, between;
With just the last leaves of the dying year
Fallen on a turf grown green.

St. Barnabas, with John his sister's son,
Set sail for Cyprus; leaving in their wake
That chosen Vessel, who for Jesus' sake
Proclaimed the Gentiles and the Jews at one.
Divided while united, each must run
His mighty course not hell should overtake;
And pressing toward the mark must own the ache
Of love, and sigh for heaven not yet begun.
For saints in life-long exile yearn to touch
Warm human hands, and commune face to face;
But these we know not ever met again:
Yet once St. Paul at distance overmuch
Just sighted Cyprus; and once more in vain
Neared it and passed; - not there his landing-place.

Remember, if I claim too much of you,
I claim it of my brother and my friend:
Have patience with me till the hidden end,
Bitter or sweet, in mercy shut from view.
Pay me my due; though I to pay your due
Am all too poor and past what will can mend:
Thus of your bounty you must give and lend
Still unrepaid by aught I look to do.
Still unrepaid by aught of mine on earth:
But overpaid, please God, when recompense
Beyond the mystic Jordan and new birth
Is dealt to virtue as to innocence;
When Angels singing praises in their mirth
Have borne you in their arms and fetched you hence.

I saw the gate called Beautiful
And looked but scarce could look within.
I saw the golden streets begin
And outskirts of the glassy pool;
On harps, on crowns of plenteous stars,
On green palm branches many-leaved
Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard,
Nor heart conceived.
I hope to see these things again,
But not as once in dreams by night,
To see them with my very sight
And touch and handle and attain
To have all Heaven beneath my feet
For narrow way that once they trod;
To have my part with all the saints
And with my God.

My sun has set, I dwell
In darkness as a dead man out of sight;
And none remains, not one, that I should tell
To him mine evil plight
This bitter night.
I will make fast my door
That hollow friends may trouble me no more.
'Friend, open to Me.'—Who is this that calls?
Nay, I am deaf as are my walls:
Cease crying, for I will not hear
Thy cry of hope or fear.
Others were dear,
Others forsook me: what art thou indeed
That I should heed
Thy lamentable need?
Hungry should feed,
Or stranger lodge thee here?'Friend, My Feet bleed.
Open thy door to Me and comfort Me.'
I will not open, trouble me no more.
Go on thy way footsore,
I will not rise and open unto thee.
'Then is it nothing to thee? Open, see
Who stands to plead with thee.
Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou
One day entreat My Face
And howl for grace,
And I be deaf as thou art now.
Open to Me.'Then I cried out upon him: Cease,
Leave me in peace:
Fear not that I should crave
Aught thou mayst have.
Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more,
Lest I arise and chase thee from my door.
What, shall I not be let
Alone, that thou dost vex me yet?
But all night long that voice spake urgently:
'Open to Me.'
Still harping in mine ears:
'Rise, let Me in.'
Pleading with tears:
'Open to Me that I may come to thee.'
While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold:
'My Feet bleed, see My Face,
See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace,
My Heart doth bleed for thee,
Open to Me.'So till the break of day:
Then died away
That voice, in silence as of sorrow;
Then footsteps echoing like a sigh
Passed me by,
Lingering footsteps slow to pass.
On the morrow
I saw upon the grass
Each footprint marked in blood, and on my door
The mark of blood for evermore.