When all the Stars become a Memory

When all the stars become a memory
Hid in the heart of heaven: when the sun
At last is resting from his weary run
Sinking to glorious silence in the sea
Of God’s own glory: when the immensity
Of Nature’s universe its fate has won
And its reward: when death to death is done
And deathless Being’s all that is to be—

Your praise shall ’scape the grinding of the mills:
My songs shall live to drive their blinding cars
Through fiery apocalypse to Heaven’s bars!
When God’s loosed might the prophet’s word fulfils,
My songs shall see the ruin of the hills,
My songs shall sing the dirges of the stars.

Your Pride

I sit and beg beside the gate,
I watch and wait to see you pass,
You never pass the portals old,
That gate of gold like gleaming glass.

Yet you have often wandered by,
I’ve heard you sigh, I’ve seen you smile,
You never smile now as you stray—
You can but stay a little while.

And now you know your task is hard,
You must discard your jewelled gear,
You must not fear to crave a dole
From any soul that waits you here.

And you have still your regal pride
And you have sighed that I should see
Your gifts to me beside the gate,
Your pride, your great humility.

If I should need to tear aside

If I should need to tear aside
The veils that hide both Heaven and Hell
To tell you that a soul had died
That once but tried to love you well
No breath should blow those veils aside.

But if I found your soul could save
From hell’s deep grave my sinking soul
Only if willingly you gave
I’d take—and then I’d crave the whole
Knowing you generous and brave.

When I am Dead

When I am dead let not your murderous tears
Deface with their slow dropping my sad tomb
Lest your grey head grow greyer for my doom
And fill its echoing corridors with fears:
Your heart that my stone monument appears
While yet I live—O give it not to gloom
When I am dead, but let some joy illume
The ultimate Victory that stings and sears.

Already I can hear the stealthy tread
Of sorrow breaking through the hush of day;
I have no hope you will avert my dread,
Too well I know, that soon am mixed with clay,
They mourn the body who the spirit slay
And those that stab the living weep the dead.

The Claim that has the Canker on the Rose

The claim that has the canker on the rose
Is mine on you, man’s claim on Paradise
Hopelessly lost that ceaselessly he sighs
And all unmerited God still bestows;
The claim on the invisible wind that blows
The flame of charity to enemies
Not to the deadliest sinner, God denies—
Less claim than this have I on you, God knows.

I cannot ask for any thing from you
Because my pride is eaten up with shame
That you should think my poverty a claim
Upon your charity, knowing it is true
That all the glories formerly I knew
Shone from the cloudy splendour of your name.

Your Fault

It is of her virtues you evade the snare,
Then for her faults you’ll fall in love with her.

—Francis Thompson.

Your fault, Lady, is to be
Womankind’s epitome;
No girl’s, but girl essential is your being
Could we but see beyond our mortal seeing,
Could we but hear beyond our mortal song
The song immortal of seraphic throng,
Could we but know upon each mortal sign
The seal of immortality divine.

’Tis no virtue that you are
Virtuous—nor for the star
To shine, nor flowers to array
Themselves in glory from the clay;
That yours is wisdom old and new
For this we praise your God—not you;
Yet there is something we can still
Sing in your praise—your wayward will;
Something there is that you may own,
Your faults, thank God, are yours alone
Not heaven’s, nor ever may we doubt
If these from heaven can shtit you out
Ourselves shall storm the desperate road
And welcome you to your abode.

’Tis for this fault we love you, that your eyes
Regard not unattainable Paradise,
That not amid the fiery stars you spread
The nets of your hair, not ever towards the dead
Set your unwavering feet, your gentle words
Clothe not in thunders that make mute the birds,
Nor yet perplex your pentecostal tongue
With songs too crazy to be said or sung,
Never make moan of other’s joys and fears
And see all Nature weeping through your tears,
Fly not, Icarian-wingйd, to the sun
Leaving the many to pursue the one,
Chasing, yet hooded hawk, a Shining Dove,
Nor break your heart about the feet of Love.