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Are we to keep Christ writhing on the cross!









Dear Friends







Dear friends; reproach me not for what I do;

Nor counsel me; nor pity me; nor say

That I am wearing half my life away

For bubble…work that only fools pursue。

And if my bubbles be too small for you;

Blow bigger then your own:  the games we play

To fill the frittered minutes of a day;

Good glasses are to read the spirit through。



And whoso reads may get him some shrewd skill;

And some unprofitable scorn resign;

To praise the very thing that he deplores;

So; friends (dear friends); remember; if you will;

The shame I win for singing is all mine;

The gold I miss for dreaming is all yours。









The Story of the Ashes and the Flame







No matter why; nor whence; nor when she came;

There was her place。  No matter what men said;

No matter what she was; living or dead;

Faithful or not; he loved her all the same。

The story was as old as human shame;

But ever since that lonely night she fled;

With books to blind him; he had only read

The story of the ashes and the flame。



There she was always coming pretty soon

To fool him back; with penitent scared eyes

That had in them the laughter of the moon

For baffled lovers; and to make him think 

Before she gave him time enough to wink 

Sin's kisses were the keys to Paradise。









For Some Poems by Matthew Arnold







Sweeping the chords of Hellas with firm hand;

He wakes lost echoes from song's classic shore;

And brings their crystal cadence back once more

To touch the clouds and sorrows of a land

Where God's truth; cramped and fettered with a band

Of iron creeds; he cheers with golden lore

Of heroes and the men that long before

Wrought the romance of ages yet unscanned。



Still does a cry through sad Valhalla go

For Balder; pierced with Lok's unhappy spray 

For Balder; all but spared by Frea's charms;

And still does art's imperial vista show;

On the hushed sands of Oxus; far away;

Young Sohrab dying in his father's arms。









Amaryllis







Once; when I wandered in the woods alone;

An old man tottered up to me and said;

〃Come; friend; and see the grave that I have made

For Amaryllis。〃  There was in the tone

Of his complaint such quaver and such moan

That I took pity on him and obeyed;

And long stood looking where his hands had laid

An ancient woman; shrunk to skin and bone。



Far out beyond the forest I could hear

The calling of loud progress; and the bold

Incessant scream of commerce ringing clear;

But though the trumpets of the world were glad;

It made me lonely and it made me sad

To think that Amaryllis had grown old。









Kosmos







Ah;  shuddering men that falter and shrink so

To look on death;  what were the days we live;

Where life is half a struggle to forgive;

But for the love that finds us when we go?

Is God a jester?  Does he laugh and throw

Poor branded wretches here to sweat and strive

For some vague end that never shall arrive?

And is He not yet weary of the show?



Think of it; all ye millions that have planned;

And only planned; the largess of hard youth!

Think of it; all ye builders on the sand;

Whose works are down!   Is love so small; forsooth?

Be brave!  To…morrow you will understand

The doubt; the pain; the triumph; and the Truth!









Zola







Because he puts the compromising chart

Of hell before your eyes; you are afraid;

Because he counts the price that you have paid

For innocence; and counts it from the start;

You loathe him。  But he sees the human heart

Of God meanwhile; and in God's hand has weighed

Your squeamish and emasculate crusade

Against the grim dominion of his art。



Never until we conquer the uncouth

Connivings of our shamed indifference

(We call it Christian faith!) are we to scan

The racked and shrieking hideousness of Truth

To find; in hate's polluted self…defence

Throbbing; the pulse; the divine heart of man。









The Pity of the Leaves







Vengeful across the cold November moors;

Loud with ancestral shame there came the bleak

Sad wind that shrieked; and answered with a shriek;

Reverberant through lonely corridors。

The old man heard it; and he heard; perforce;

Words out of lips that were no more to speak 

Words of the past that shook the old man's cheek

Like dead; remembered footsteps on old floors。



And then there were the leaves that plagued him so!

The brown; thin leaves that on the stones outside

Skipped with a freezing whisper。  Now and then

They stopped; and stayed there  just to let him know

How dead they were; but if the old man cried;

They fluttered off like withered souls of men。









Aaron Stark







Withal a meagre man was Aaron Stark; 

Cursed and unkempt; shrewd; shrivelled; and morose。

A miser was he; with a miser's nose;

And eyes like little dollars in the dark。

His thin; pinched mouth was nothing but a mark;

And when he spoke there came like sullen blows

Through scattered fangs a few snarled words and close;

As if a cur were chary of its bark。



Glad for the murmur of his hard renown;

Year after year he shambled through the town; 

A loveless exile moving with a staff;

And oftentimes there crept into his ears

A sound of alien pity; touched with tears; 

And then (and only then) did Aaron laugh。









The Garden







There is a fenceless garden overgrown

With buds and blossoms and all sorts of leaves;

And once; among the roses and the sheaves;

The Gardener and I were there alone。

He led me to the plot where I had thrown

The fennel of my days on wasted ground;

And in that riot of sad weeds I found

The fruitage of a life that was my own。



My life!  Ah; yes; there was my life; indeed!

And there were all the lives of humankind;

And they were like a book that I could read;

Whose every leaf; miraculously signed;

Outrolled itself from Thought's eternal seed;

Love…rooted in God's garden of the mind。









Cliff Klingenhagen







Cliff Klingenhagen had me in to dine

With him one day; and after soup and meat;

And all the other things there were to eat;

Cliff took two glasses and filled one with wine

And one with wormwood。  Then; without a sign

For me to choose at all; he took the draught

Of bitterness himself; and lightly quaffed

It off; and said the other one was mine。



And when I asked him what the deuce he meant

By doing that; he only looked at me

And grinned; and said it was a way of his。

And though I know the fellow; I have spent

Long time a…wondering when I shall be

As happy as Cliff Klingenhagen is。









Charles Carville's Eyes







A melancholy face Charles Carville had;

But not so melancholy as it seemed; 

When once you knew him;  for his mouth redeemed

His insufficient eyes; forever sad:

In them there was no life…glimpse; good or bad; 

Nor joy nor passion in them ever gleamed;

His mouth was all of him that ever beamed;

His eyes were sorry; but his mouth was glad。



He never was a fellow that said much;

And half of what he did say was not heard

By many of us:  we were out of touch

With all his whims and all his theories

Till he was dead; so those blank eyes of his

Might speak them。  Then we heard them; every word。









The Dead Village







Here there is death。  But even here; they say; 

Here where the dull sun shines this afternoon

As desolate as ever the dead moon

Did glimmer on dead Sardis;  men were gay;

And there were little children here to play;

With small soft hands that once did keep in tune

The strings that stretch from heaven; till too soon

The change came; and the music passed away。



Now there is nothing but the ghosts of things; 

No life; no love; no children; and no men;

And over the forgotten place there clings

The strange and unrememberable light

That is in dreams。  The music failed; and then

God frowned; and shut the village from His sight。









Boston







My northern pines are good enough for me;

But there's a town my memory uprears 

A town that always like a friend appears;

And always in the sunrise by the sea。

And over it; somehow; there seems to be

A downward flash of something new and fierce;

That ever strives to clear; but never clears

The dimness of a charmed antiquity。









Two Sonnets







  I





Just as I wonder at the twofold screen

Of twisted innocence that you would plait

For eyes that uncourageously await

The coming of a kingdom that has been;

So do I wonder what God's love can mean

To you that all so strangely estimate

The purpose and the consequent estate

Of one short shuddering step to the Unseen。



No; I have not your backward faith to shrink

Lone…faring from the doorway of 

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