English

The billows rose; down sank the land;
The sea closed in like lead;
The waves like leopards tumbled on
Far above my head.

Slow closed the mesh, slow waxed my flesh,
Darkly I came to birth;
I rose; the sky was white as snow,
As ashes black the earth:

The ashes of millennial fires
Extinguished utterly!
In towering blocks the twisted rocks
Stuck up above the sea.

Blithely I swam, a moving thing,
On the vast and moveless mere;
And headless things swam in blind swift rings

I knew not whence my breath had streamed,
Nor where had hid my clay,
Until my soul stood by my side
As on my bed I lay.

It showed me Chaos and the Word,
The dust, the moving Hand,
Myself, the many and the one,
The dead, the living land.

Faintly at first I heard the sound,
Far distant, of the sea:
A rushing sound—it filled my ears,
And passéd silently.

I stood beside a dark blue shore,
Beneath a dark blue sky.
The light came from no vanished star,
The sun had not passed by.

Thy way, O God, is best,—
Thy way, not mine;
Patient beneath Thy rod,
Quick to obey Thy nod,
Because Thou art my God,—
Thy way, not mine.

I know Thy wise design;
Thy will is mine.
From earthly dross refine,
Shape to the mould divine,
My soul shall ne'er repine,—
Thy will, not mine.

Clay in the potter's hand,
Thy will is mine.
'T is Thine, the vase to make,
Or Thine, dear Lord, to break;
Thine, or to give, or take,—
Thy will, not mine.

Sorrow, or joy, be sent,—

We should niver have walked to the ould sea-wall
And hearkened the ould grey Sea;
We should niver have watched the Southern Cross,
That new-found love and me!

I should niver have left that bamboo room
Wid its scent and its winkin' lamp
And walked thro' the sthill av the Tropic night
Where the Thrades blew warm and damp!

I should niver have watched the ould tides swim
Wid their shimmerin' glimmerin' glow
That led me back to my lost Thrue Love
And the hills av long ago!

If you would know the spring whence strength of soul
Was drawn in evil days woeful as these
By those who gladly walked to meet their death,
Bending the neck beneath the biting steel——
The headsman's axe—or climbing to the stake,
First to the faggots clinging there to die—
Proclaiming Unity—the martyr's death. . . .
If you would know the well where those who, crushed
Between the straits of Chaos and the Grave,
Drew comforts of the Lord, and mighty faith
To suffer long, and iron strength to bear

The thorn is budding into life again,
The quickened vine puts out its tender shoots,
The warm, warm sunshine and the cool, cool rain
Feeding their hidden roots.

Sweet Spirit, entering where no eye can see,
Reach this poor heart in all its waiting need,
And like the thorn and vine my life shall be
When Thou its roots dost feed.

A LITTLE cloud in a golden veil
At setting of the sun:
And I a cobbler working—working;
Work is never done.

A little cloud in a golden veil;
And I am mending shoes,
Never a feathered sandal thing
Such as a cloud may use.

A little cloud in a golden veil,
Along the bright highway:
And but for her, to-morrow were
Another yesterday.

And this will stay, tho' she melt away
After the moon sets sail.
For no man's sky is always gray,
—Cloud in a golden veil.

A farmer's son so sweet
Was keeping of his sheep,
So careless fell asleep
While his lambs were playing.

A fair young lady gay
By chance she came that way,
Found him sleeping lay
Whom she loved so dear.

She kissed his lips so sweet
As he lay fast asleep.
‘I'm afraid my heart will break
For you, my dear.’

She said, ‘Awake, I pray,
Your flock will go astray,
Your flock will go astray
From you, my dear.’

He woke with great surprise
To behold her handsome eyes,

Rare, and more rare, my verses still appear,
I scarce produce a poem in a year;
Yet blame not, Fox, or hear me ere you blame;
My genius droops, my spirit's not the same,
My verse comes harder, and the little fire
I once possess'd, I daily feel expire.
Not as when, urg'd by your desire, I strung
My willing lyre, and bolder numbers sung;
Daring the patriot's treachery to rehearse,
'Till statesmen trembled at the impending verse.
To speak and charm in public, friend, is thine;
The silent arts of poetry are mine:

From his high arch, nestled in stony nook,
He used to leer across the twilight space
Of the great aisle—the goblin with the book,
Bent in huge hands. Half lost in ivoried lace
Of shadow carving, scrolls and thick-twined gorse,
His savage face was sly with some dark jest;
I thought it strange he lived so cruel, coarse,
Above five centuries' drifted prayer and rest.
To-day I knew him by his evil sneer,
In shattered rose-glass, fretwork, fallen towers;
And wondered if he told his maker's fear