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Archives: Poems

The Supports

Full Chorus.

To Him Who bade the Heavens abide yet cease not from their motion,
To Him Who tames the moonstruck tide twice a day round Ocean–
Let His Names be magnified in all poor folks' devotion! 

Powers and Gifts.

Not for Prophecies or Powers, Visions, Gifts, or Graces,
But the unregardful hours that grind us in our places
With the burden on our backs, the weather in our faces. 

Toils.

Not for any Miracle of easy Loaves and Fishes,
But for doing, 'gainst our will, work against our wishes–
Such as finding food to fill daily-emptied dishes.  

Glories.

Not for Voices, Harps or Wings or rapt illumination,
But the grosser Self that springs of use and occupation,
Unto which the Spirit clings as her last salvation. 

Powers, Glories, Toils, and Gifts.

(He Who launched our Ship of Fools many anchors gave us,
Lest one gale should start them all - one collision stave us.
              Praise Him for the petty creeds
              That prescribe in paltry needs,
Solemn rites to trivial deeds and, by small things, save us!) 

Services and Loves. 

Heart may fail, and Strength outwear, and Purpose turn to Loathing,
But the everyday affair of business, meals, and clothing,
Builds a bulkhead 'twixt Despair and the Edge of Nothing. 

Patiences.

(Praise Him, then, Who orders it that, though Earth be flaring
              And the crazy skies are lit 
              By the searchlights of the Pit,
Man should not depart a whit from his wonted bearing.)  

Hopes. 

He Who bids the wild-swans' host still maintain their flight on 
              Air-roads over islands lost–
              Ages since 'neath Ocean lost–
Beaches of some sunken coast their fathers would alight on–

Faiths.

He shall guide us through this dark, not by new-blown glories,
But by every ancient mark our fathers used before us,
Till our children ground their ark where the proper shore is.  

Services, Patiences, Faiths, Hopes, and Loves. 

He Who used the clay that clings on our boots to make us,
Shall not suffer earthly things to remove or shake us:
              But, when Man denies His Lord, 
              Habit without Fleet or Sword 
              (Custom without threat or word)
Sees the ancient fanes restored - the timeless rites o'ertake us. 

Full Chorus.

For He Who makes the Mountains smoke and rives the Hills asunder,
              And, to-morrow, leads the grass–
              Mere unconquerable grass–
Where the fuming crater was, to heal and hide it under,
              He shall not–He shall not
Shall not lay on us the yoke of too long Fear and Wonder!

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The Supplication of the Black Aberdeen

 1  
I pray! My little body and whole span
Of years is Thine, my Owner and my Man.
For Thou hast made me—unto Thee I owe
This dim, distressed half-soul that hurts me so,
Compact of every crime, but, none the less,
Broken by knowledge of its naughtiness.
Put me not from Thy Life—’tis all I know.
If Thou forsake me, whither shall I go?
2 
Thine is the Voice with which my Day begins:
Thy Foot my refuge, even in my sins.
Thine Honour hurls me forth to testify
Against the Unclean and Wicked passing by.
(But when Thou callest they are of Thy Friends,
Who readier than I to make amends?)
I was Thy Deputy with high and low—
If Thou dismiss me, whither shall I go?
3
I have been driven forth on gross offence
That took no reckoning of my penitence,
And, in my desolation—faithless me!—
Have crept for comfort to a woman’s knee!
Now I return, self-drawn, to meet the just
Reward of Riot, Theft and Breach of Trust.
Put me not from Thy Life—though this is so.
If Thou forsake me, whither shall I go?
4
Into The Presence, flattening while I crawl—
From head to tail, I do confess it all.
Mine was the fault—deal me the stripes—but spare
The Pointed Finger which I cannot bear!
The Dreadful Tone in which my Name is named,
That sends me ’neath the sofa-frill ashamed!
(Yet, to be near Thee, I would face that woe.)
If Thou reject me, whither shall I go?
5
Can a gift turn Thee? I will bring mine all—
My Secret Bone, my Throwing-Stick, my Ball.
Or wouldst Thou sport? Then watch me hunt awhile,
Chasing, not after conies, but Thy Smile,
Content, as breathless on the turf I sit,
Thou shouldst deride my little legs and wit—
Ah! Keep me in Thy Life for a fool’s show!
If Thou deny me, whither shall I go! . . .
6
Is the Dark gone? The Light of Eyes restored?
The Countenance turned meward, O my Lord?
The Paw accepted, and—for all to see—
The Abject Sinner throned upon the Knee?
The Ears bewrung, and Muzzle scratched because
He is forgiven, and All is as It was?
Now am I in Thy Life, and since ’tis so—
That Cat awaits the Judgment. May I go?

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The Supplication of Kerr Cross, Missionary

 Let us get a good sized  gun and fight in earnest  ...
The  Portuguese will no doubt refuse to allow us
to enter the country, but we must try. Let us wire
home and ask the Government to help  us thus  far,
for, if necessary,  we must try and smuggle a gun in.
What right have the Portuguese to act hand in hand
with the Arabs to close up this truly fine country and
enslave  its tribes? Mr Moir goes ... to wire home
for a cannon and a Mr Ran goes to Natal to buy a second.
May God prosper them in their endeavours!
—Vide extract from 'Daily News' next column.  
 
 
Tune—"Christchurch" (Ouseley)

1 
We smote at dawn, in stealthy wise,
The walls were high—they would not flee:
Thou knowest when a sparrow dies—
Thou knowest that I climbed a tree,
And  there in Thy dear name I prayed
To speed the bullet and the blade.
2
But where wast Thou? Our broken fray 
Recoiled in blood and flame and smoke—
Perchance Thine eyes were turned away 
On other, unregenerate folk,
While steadfastly we did Thy work—
Are we less worth than Jew or Turk?
3
Comfort Thy Church in her distress
Where, lacking Grace and grape, she faints—
Karonga in the Wilderness
Is wet with life-blood of Thy saints.
The heathen rage against us, but
Let not our prayerful throats be cut.
4
The spirit that by Thee was given
How can we quickest take away?
Thou knowest, Lord, that we have driven
The hissing lead through bleeding clay;
But slight the wounds of small-arm fire,
They will not die as we desire.
5
A minister of Christ, I kneel 
Before Thy altar to beseech
One seven-pounder-rifled-steel— 
Ten-grooved and loading at the breech:
Thereto, for Thou dost all things well,
Much ammunition—shot and shell.
6
Hot with our rage, the shot shall bring 
Thy mercy to the shrieking camp,
The shells shall Thy salvation sing, 
(Vouchsafe the fuses be not damp!)
And, since they need repeated slaughters,
Send case, dear Lord, for closer quarters.
7
Moreover all that land is fair,
And certain slaves in bondage lie,
And we would  pitch our pastures there
And smite the owners hip and thigh,
For they from out Thy Fold  have gone
To serve the Whore of Babylon.
8
How canst Thou care for such as these—
Just God who lovest us so well—
The Arab and the Portuguese,
The Heretic and Infidel?
We will possess their land. Do Thou
To each new gun spare sights allow.
9
Creator of the countless suns,
We spread the message of the Cross,
Grant that we smuggle safe those guns
And horribly avenge our loss!
So shall we teach, by death and death
Goodwill to men and peace on earth.

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The Stranger

The Stranger within my gate,
  He may be true or kind,
 But he does not talk my talk—
  I cannot feel his mind.
 I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
   But not the soul behind. 

The men of my own stock
  They may do ill or well,
 But they tell the lies I am wonted to,
  They are used to the lies I tell.
 And we do not need interpreters
  When we go to buy and sell.

The Stranger within my gates,
   He may be evil or good,
 But I cannot tell what powers control—
  What reasons sway his mood;
 Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
  Shall repossess his blood. 

The men of my own stock,
   Bitter bad they may be,
 But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
  And see the things I see;
 And whatever I think of them and their likes
  They think of the likes of me. 

This was my father's belief
   And this is also mine:
 Let the corn be all one sheaf—
  And the grapes be all one vine,
 Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
  By bitter bread and wine.

Choose another poem

The Story of Ung

1 
Once, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago,
Ung, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow.
Fashioned the form of a tribesman—gaily he whistled and sung,
Working the snow with his fingers. Read ye the Story of Ung! 
2 
Pleased was his tribe with that image—came in their hundreds to scan
Handled it, smelt it, and grunted: “Verily, this is a man!
“Thus do we carry our lances—thus is a war-belt slung.
“Lo! it is even as we are. Glory and honour to Ung!” 
3 
Later he pictured an aurochs—later he pictured a bear—
Pictured the sabre-tooth tiger dragging a man to his lair—
Pictured the mountainous mammoth, hairy, abhorrent, alone—
Out of the love that he bore them, scribing them clearly on bone. 
4 
Swift came the tribe to behold them, peering and pushing and still—
Men of the berg-battered beaches, men of the boulder-hatched hill—
Hunters and fishers and trappers, presently whispering low:
“Yea, they are like—and it may be— But how does the Picture-man know?” 
5 
“Ung—hath he slept with the Aurochs—watched where the Mastodon roam?
“Spoke on the ice with the Bow-head—followed the Sabre-tooth home?
“Nay! These are toys of his fancy! If he have cheated us so,
“How is there truth in his image—the man that he fashioned of snow?”
6 
Wroth was that maker of pictures—hotly he answered the call:
“Hunters and fishers and trappers, children and fools are ye all!
“Look at the beasts when ye hunt them!” Swift from the tumult he broke,
Ran to the cave of his father and told him the shame that they spoke. 
7 
And the father of Ung gave answer, that was old and wise in the craft,
Maker of pictures aforetime, he leaned on his lance and laughed:
“If they could see as thou seest they would do what thou hast done,
“And each man would make him a picture, and—what would become of my son? 
8 
“There would be no pelts of the reindeer, flung down at thy cave for a gift,
“Nor dole of the oily timber that comes on the Baltic drift;
No store of well-drilled needles, nor ouches of amber pale;
“No new-cut tongues of the bison, nor meat of the stranded whale. 
9 
“Thou hast not toiled at the fishing when the sodden trammels freeze,
“Nor worked the war-boats outward through the rush of the rock-staked seas,
“Yet they bring thee fish and plunder—full meal and an easy bed—
“And all for the sake of thy pictures.” And Ung held down his head. 
10 
“Thou hast not stood to the Aurochs when the red snow reeks of the fight;
“Men have no time at the houghing to count his curls aright.
“And the heart of the hairy Mammoth, thou sayest, they do not see,
“Yet they save it whole from the beaches and broil the best for thee. 
11 
“And now do they press to thy pictures, with opened mouth and eye,
“And a little gift in the doorway, and the praise no gift can buy:
“But—sure they have doubted thy pictures, and that is a grievous stain—
“Son that can see so clearly, return them their gifts again!” 
12 
And Ung looked down at his deerskins—their broad shell-tasselled bands—
And Ung drew downward his mitten and looked at his naked hands;
And he gloved himself and departed, and he heard his father, behind:
“Son that can see so clearly, rejoice that thy tribe is blind!” 
13 
Straight on the glittering ice-field, by the caves of the lost Dordogne,
Ung, a maker of pictures, fell to his scribing on bone
Even to mammoth editions. Gaily he whistled and sung,
Blessing his tribe for their blindness. Heed ye the Story of Ung!

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The Story of Paul Vaugel

This is the story of Paul Vaugel
Of the Pol-Lourdesse, and how he fell
From Heaven to that he counted Hell.

I set for myself one fixed intent—
(Hope is strong as Love in the Heart)
As a light to guide me where I went 
(Reckon ye neither burns or smart)

And I laboured a year with heart and strove
That out of my Love there should come Love.—

And laboured a year with heart and brain,
And a Hope as deep as Love in my heart, 
But my winter harvesting was pain,
Yet I drew not back for burn or smart—

For the purpose stayed and changed no whit 
And I rose again to follow it.

And I laboured that Love should come in the end,
With Hope as deep as Love in the heart, 
Alone, in the dark, I had no friend
To comfort a little my bitter smart

And I laboured that Love should come in the end. 
And that she I had saved should at length unbend.

And there came no rest by night or day,
And the woman that ruled me passed away

And I, that had worked to gain her bread, 
With a hope as deep as Love in the heart 
Lifted her up where she lay dead,
And I alone bore pain and smart

For this woman was like to die of pain,
And I—I had given her strength again.

And I swore an oath that by right of sin, 
And hope of better in either heart,
The woman should be as my nearest kin,
And I reckoned neither of burn or smart. 
And a space I had got her bread to eat 
And clothed her body and shod her feet, 
And such life as we led was sweet indeed 
With Hope as deep as Love in the heart, 
And all her Love for all my meed
And little care for a coming smart,

And our straitened chamber seemed to be
A heaven set apart for me,
Where she lay still, and white and faint,
But with hope as deep as Love in the heart, 
She that to me was very saint,
And I reckoned little of burn or smart.

And the woe of the streets and all their sin,
Beat at the door but came not in.

And then was rest when the day was over,
And hope and Love were high in the heart,
For her white arms closed round me, her lover, 
And her kiss was worth all pain and smart

And the heat and toil of a little day,
At the sound of her voice would pass away.

And I thought that this would alway be
And that hope and Love should rule i' the heart,
But God's hand took her love from me
And I alone bore the pain and the smart

For the plague that summer brings to our town
Seized her and held, and threw her down.

And when she died I had lived so, 
With the love of one to fill my heart,
There was no friend that could hear my woe,
And comfort a little my bitter smart.

So I raised her up, and combed her hair,
And lifted her down our narrow stair.
And the poor white feet swayed aimlessly,
As I laid the sweet head  close to me.
And all the wealth of her hair unbound
Fell o'er my arm to the very ground,
And  the pale lips moved as I lifted her,
So that I thought some life did stir;
An  hour I chafed her hands and head
(Albeit I  knew that she was dead).
And I stood at the foot of our narrow stair 
Till the cattle came came to the market-square;
So I knew that the noon was passed and over,
And I slid the bolt and bore out my lover. 
    
          *          *          *          *  

Where the Pol-Lourdesse runs out by the sea,
Is the burial place for such as we,
Where the green sea poppy flourisheth,
And the dog-fish nuzzles the bones of death.
Where the sand like a sea-mist shifts and moves
Over the bones of our buried Loves, 
And the starveling ponies are hardly fed
From the wreaths we poor folk make for our Dead.
     
          *          *          *          *  

The sun was setting angrily
Where the Pol-Lourdesse runs out by the sea, 
And the glare of the sunset fell like blood
On the poor pinched face beneath its hood,
As I trod on the shingly sea-ward reach
From the street of the fleshers—out to the beach
And her head on my shoulder rose and fell,
And I thought that her lips framed 'Paul Vaugel'
So I knelt on the road and laid her down, 
By the conduit wall of the newer town.
And I chafed her head and called her name
So loud, that the market people came,
And they stood and watched till the sun went down,
And I bore the dead thing out of the town
      
          *          *          *          *  

And I came to the dunes as the sun was hid 
By a thick grey bank of clouds that slid
Like blinded beasts round the silent sky,
As our cattle reel before they die
     
          *          *          *          *  

And I found a hillock of bent bound sand, 
And I dug her resting place with my hand.  
And I lifted her up and lowered her,
And waited to see if she would stir.
(Tho' I knew she was dead)—and then I strove
To put the dry sand over my Love.
And the silver sand in a shower fell
On the feet of the Love of Paul Vaugel 
And I covered the waist but could not bear 
To lay the filth on her face and hair—
So I sat and waited till night should fall
And I could not see the face at all.
And I plucked sea poppy and wind dried heather,
And wove them into a wreath together
And I set the wreath on her brows as night
Came, and shut them out of my sight— 
Then I piled the sand over face and hair 
Till I left no whit of the body bare
For I felt in the dark lest foot or hand
Should be uncovered by the sand.
And I stacked up gorze till my fingers bled,
Lest the sheep should pasture over head— 
And I weighted the bushes with boulder clay, 
And I sat on the Dunes and wept till day.
And a great mist rose from the Dune St Lo,
And an inland wind on the full tide's flow
And all night long the sea-mist passed 
In a thousand shapes before the blast 
And all our past Life shewed to me 
Till morning broke on the sullen sea.
    
          *          *          *          *  

And I went to my home when the day was white,
And Hope and Love lay dead in the heart,
And I laid her trinkets out of sight,
For Love remembered is bitter smart—
And the cattle came below to the square, 
And the street was full of our winter fair
And I went in the street to my booth and stood
(With never a sign of a troubled heart)
As men stand and chaffer in idle mood,
For who could tell of my bitter smart?
But all day long a murmur fell,
Come thou  swiftly O Paul Vaugel'
And the street of the fleshers seemed to ring
With this one cry for my maddening
And night and day came the bitter cry
'Paul Vaugel, what hope have I?'	 
And the day and the dawn were full of the same, 
And the sunset stamped the words in flame
And the Church bells rang with a weary knell, 
'Come thou swiftly O Paul Vaugel!'
And I had no peace by day at all,
And I went to the Dunes at evenfall—
And only there had I any rest
From the thoughts that raged like flame in my breast.
And only there was my spirit still
But then  longing came—which was greater ill
And either the cry or the dumb desire 
Came to make my life a fire.
And though it is years since my woe was done, 
I have found no comfort under the sun—

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The Storm Cone

1 
This is the midnight—let no star
Delude us—dawn is very far.
This is the tempest long foretold—
Slow to make head but sure to hold. 
2 
Stand by! The lull ’twixt blast and blast
Signals the storm is near, not past;
And worse than present jeopardy
May our forlorn to-morrow be. 
3 
If we have cleared the expectant reef,
Let no man look for his relief.
Only the darkness hides the shape
Of further peril to escape. 
4 
It is decreed that we abide
The weight of gale against the tide 
And those huge waves the outer main
Sends in to set us back again. 
5 
They fall and whelm. We strain to hear
The pulses of her labouring gear,
Till the deep throb beneath us proves,
After each shudder and check, she moves! 
6 
She moves, with all save purpose lost,
To make her offing from the coast;
But, till she fetches open sea.
Let no man deem that he is free!

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The Spies’ March


(“The outbreak is in full swing and our death-rate would sicken Napoleon. . . . 
Dr. M— died last week, and C— on Monday, but some more medicines are 
coming. . . We don’t seem to be able to check it at all . . . . Villages panicking 
badly . . . . In some places not a living soul . . . . But at any rate the experience
gained may come in useful, so I am keeping my notes written up to date in case 
of accidents. . . Death is a queer chap to live with for steady company.” 
        —Extract from a private letter from Manchuria.)  
1 
There are no leaders to lead us to honour, 
                    and yet with out leaders we sally,
Each man reporting for duty alone, out of sight, 
                    out of reach, of his fellow.
There are no bugles to call the battalions, 
                    and yet without bugle we rally
From the ends of the earth to the ends of the earth, 
                    to follow the Standard of Yellow!
    Fall in!  O fall in!  O fall in! 
2 
 Not where the squadrons mass,
    Not where the bayonets shine,
 Not where the big shell shout as they pass
    Over the firing-line;
 Not where the wounded are,
    Not where the nations die,
 Killed in the cleanly game of war—
    That is no place for a spy!
 O Princes, Thrones and Powers, your work 
                     is less than ours—
    Here is no place for a spy! 
3 
 Trained to another use,
    We march with colours furled,
 Only concerned when Death breaks loose
    On a front of half a world.
 Only for General Death
    The Yellow Flag may fly,
 While we take post beneath—
    That is the place for a spy.
 Where Plague has spread his pinions 
                      over Nations and Dominions—
    Then will be work for a spy! 
4 
The dropping shots begin,
    The single funerals pass,
 Our skirmishers run in,
    The corpses dot the grass!
 The howling towns stampede,
    The tainted hamlets die.
 Now it is war indeed—
    Now there is room for a spy!
 O Peoples, Kings and Lands, we are 
                     waiting your commands—
    What is the work for a spy?
             (Drums)—Fear is upon us, spy!  
5 
 “Go where his pickets hide—
    Unmask the shape they take,
 Whether a gnat from the waterside,
    Or a stinging fly in the brake,
 Or filth of the crowded street,
    Or a sick rat limping by,
 Or a smear of spittle dried in the heat—
    That is the work of a spy!
            (Drums)—Death is upon us, spy! 
6 
 “What does he next prepare?
    Whence will he move to attack?—
 By water, earth or air?—
    How can we head him back?
 Shall we starve him out if we burn
    Or bury his food-supply?
 Slip through his lines and learn—
    That is work for a spy!
            (Drums)—Get to your business, spy!
7
'Does he feint or strike in force?
   Will he charge or ambuscade?
What is it checks his course?
   Is he beaten or only delayed?
How long will the lull endure?
   Is he retreating? Why?
Crawl to his camp and make sure—
   That is the work for a spy!
            (Drums)—Fetch us our answer, spy!
8
'Ride with him girth to girth
   Wherever the Pale Horse wheels,
Wait on his councils, ear to earth,
   And say what the dust reveals.
For the smoke of our torment rolls
   Where the burning thousands lie;
What do we care for men's bodies or souls?
   Bring us deliverance, spy!'

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The Sons of Martha

1 
The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.
2 
It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.
It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,
Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.
3 
They say to mountains, " Be ye removèd" They say to the lesser floods "Be dry."
Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd–they are not afraid of that which is high.
Then do the hill tops shake to the summit–then is the bed of the deep laid bare,
That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.
4 
They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.
He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,
And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.
5 
To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.
They are concerned with matters hidden–under the earthline their altars are
The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,
And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.
6 
They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their job when they damn-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.
7 
Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;
Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.
8 
And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd–they know the angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the Feet–they hear the Word–they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and–the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!


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The Song of the Women
			

			
			

				
(Lady Dufferin’s Fund for medical aid to the Women of India) 

1 
How shall she know the worship we would do her?
The walls are high, and she is very far.
How shall the woman’s message reach unto her
Above the tumult of the packed bazaar?
Free wind of March, against the lattice blowing,
Bear thou our thanks, lest she depart unknowing.
2 
Go forth across the fields we may not roam in,
Go forth beyond the trees that rim the city,
To whatsoe’er fair place she hath her home in,
Who dowered us with walth of love and pity.
Out of our shadow pass, and seek her singing—
“I have no gifts but Love alone for bringing.”
3 
Say that we be a feeble folk who greet her,
But old in grief, and very wise in tears;
Say that we, being desolate, entreat her
That she forget us not in after years;
For we have seen the light, and it were grievous
To dim that dawning if our lady leave us.
4 
By life that ebbed with none to stanch the failing
By Love’s sad harvest garnered in the spring,
When Love in ignorance wept unavailing
O’er young buds dead before their blossoming;
By all the grey owl watched, the pale moon viewed,
In past grim years, declare our gratitude!
5 
By hands uplifted to the Gods that heard not,
By fits that found no favor in their sight,
By faces bent above the babe that stirred not,
By nameless horrors of the stifling night;
By ills foredone, by peace her toils discover,
Bid Earth be good beneath and Heaven above her!
6 
If she have sent her servants in our pain
If she have fought with Death and dulled his sword;
If she have given back our sick again.
And to the breast the wakling lips restored,
Is it a little thing that she has wrought?
Then Life and Death and Motherhood be nought.
7 
Go forth, O wind, our message on thy wings,
And they shall hear thee pass and bid thee speed,
In reed-roofed hut, or white-walled home of kings,
Who have been helpen by ther in their need.
All spring shall give thee fragrance, and the wheat
Shall be a tasselled floorcloth to thy feet.
8 
Haste, for our hearts are with thee, take no rest!
Loud-voiced ambassador, from sea to sea
Proclaim the blessing, mainfold, confessed.
Of those in darkness by her hand set free.
Then very softly to her presence move,
And whisper: “Lady, lo, they know and love!” 
 



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