Classic Poem

Now is the crown of the Passion;
A gloom on the head of Spring.
Alone from church in the cold air
With plovers in wailful fashion
Crying about me, shivering
I walk from the lights of Mold: a blare
Of brass bands sounds in the thin, pure chill
Of this night in April: afar some gleams
From lonely starlight pierce the clear darkness: dreams
Flit over the dull, still way, and will not kill
The thought and sight of the eyes that the gray-walled city
Gave to mine own to drink, as a far caught fire
The goal of a traveller's desire.
These have no pity
These troubled gusts of this Passion week's pale night,
These have no pity.
Is this quite nothing? a flash, a moment of light
Won under skies of blue in the southern town?
Is this not all? Yea, thorny crown
And purple robe and rods beating the face,
And death of God: I seek not to displace
The glory of that passion: but in vain
Thrills through this night that high perpetual pain,
For I am passion-struck: ah, from this thin
Wan radiance of Friday smiles that sin
It were so fair to win;
So fair to die therein?
But the lone plovers' cry and one bright star
May voice my passion whither angels are
And hands of pity.