When at early morn I stand
Humble at the Altar Feast,
Breaking bread at thy command,
Then I know I am thy Priest.

When thou showest I have turned
Some blind spirit towards the east
Who for sunlight long has yearned,
Then I know I am thy Priest.

When thou let'st me soothe a pain
Others, probing, have increased,
Then 'tis clear that not in vain
I have been ordained thy Priest.

Make me anxious, Lord, to be
Helpful to the very least
Child of weak humanity,
This will prove I am thy Priest.

To some altar every day

The last nymph, ere the Old World's close,
Fleeing, lest her sweet friends forget,
Bequeathed her blushes to the rose,
Her eyes unto the violet.

It must have been a lovely girl,
So red of cheek, so blue of eye—
Look, how these rose-leaves flaming curl—
What tints within the violet lie!

No more beneath the mossy trees
Her laughter shakes the bramble-tips;
But, ah, for such bequests as these
Are smiles upon a million lips!

And was she sad to die away,
Child of the faded Golden Age,
And did her eyes have tears the day

When the glow of fading sunlight,
Gives way to gath'ring dark,
A lone campfire's glowing embers,
Release gold-gleaming sparks;
A man sits in the deep shadows,
In a posture of rest—
He's a man of rugged ranges,
Man of the open West.

He's ridden atop the springtime,
He's scorched in summer heat;
He has known Old Winter's scourging,
By frozen hands and feet,
Without a sign of a whimper,
He long has faced the test;
He's a true son of the ranges,
Man of the open West.

A face that is tan and freckled,
Stubby beard on his chin;

This is the toll of the desert,
These bleaching bones in the sun;
Ever the price of its gruelling,
If all its treasures are won.

Stern is the sway of the desert,
Ever and always the same;
The strong and the sturdy survive it,
But woe to the weak and lame.

These bleaching bones on the hillside
Bear witness for others to see,
Where someone has paid the ransom,
The desert's toll and its fee.

Take heed from this gruesome warning,
Take care lest you might stay too,
To bleach on the sands of the desert,
And the coyotes howl over you.

Now that the dream is vanished, and the night is fled,
And doubt is mine no more, now my desire is mine,
I hunger for the sped delight that dawn has banished,
Dawn my desire: O fool! the night was more divine.

In sorrow did I languish, and have I not shed
Tears for untasted joys that did immortal seem?
Now hope, with fear, lies dead, and passion, with its anguish:
O give me back my doubt again, and let me dream!

The autumn days
are terrible and keen,
And the hundred herbs
will soon all be withered
Now in the season
when we tread the frost
I climb on high
to see you off again
Cold air
obscures the hills and lowlands
So that the floating clouds
have no place to rest
Unthinkably far
the islets of the ocean,
And the wind and waves
are often contrary
As evening comes on
we enjoy the farewell banquet
Though our parting words
must at last be sad,
When the birds of dawn
return to roost at evening
And the setting sun

I'm incorrect: the learned say
That I write well, but not their way.
For this to every star I bend:
From their dull method heaven defend,
Who labour up the hill of fame,
And pant and struggle for a name!
My free-born thoughts I'll not confine,
Though all Parnassus could be mine.
No, let my genius have its way,
My genius I will still obey:
Nor with their stupid rules control
The sacred pulse that beats within my soul.
I from my very heart despise
These mighty dull, these mighty wise,
Who were the slaves of Busby's nod,

Here, stranger, pause, and take a moment's ease
With pleasant thinking on a good man dead.
This marble marks the tomb of Diocles;
Say not that virtue sleeps unhallowèd!
The grateful tribes delight with arts like these
To deck the pillow of a noble head.
Nor are these all; beneath yon arching trees
The merriest chorus of the spring is led.
For on a day from country cots around
Come troops of ruddy children fair of face,
And forming rings about this holy ground,
Contest the guerdon of a bright embrace;
And whoso kisseth with the deftest grace

Oh , not a poet lives but knows
The laughing beauty of the rose,
The heyday humour of the noon,
The solemn smiling of the moon,—
When night, as happy as a lover,
Doth kiss and kiss the earth, and cover
His face with all her tender hair.

Sweet bride and bridegroom everywhere,
And mothers, who so softly sing
Upon their babies' slumbering,
Know joy upon their lips, and laughter
At Joy's heels that comes tumbling after.

But who shall shake his sides to hear
That sacred laughter, fraught with fear,
That laughter strange and mystical—

Now art Thou in my house of feeble flesh,
O Word made flesh! My burning soul by Thine
Caught mystically in a living mesh!
Now is the royal banquet, now the wine,
The body broken by the courteous Host
Who is my humble Guest—a Guest adored—
Though once I spat upon, scourged at the post,
Hounded to Calvary and slew my Lord!

My name is Legion, but separate and alone;
Wash, wash, dear Crucified, my Pilate hand!
Rejected Stone, be Thou my corner-stone!
Like Mary at the cross's foot I stand;
Like Magdalene upon my sins I grieve;