Thy face is far from this our war, |
Our call and counter-cry, |
I shall not find Thee quick and kind, |
Nor know Thee till I die. |
Enough for me in dreams to see |
And touch Thy garments' hem: |
Thy feet have trod so near to God |
I may not follow them! |
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Through wantonness if men profess |
They weary of Thy parts, |
E'en let them die at blasphemy |
And perish with their arts; |
But we that love, but we that prove |
Thine excellence august, |
While we adore, discover more |
Thee perfect, wise, and just. |
|
Since spoken word Man’s Spirit stirred |
Beyond his belly-need, |
What is is Thine of fair design |
In Thought and Graft and Deed. |
|
That was and that shall be, |
And hope too high, wherefore we die, |
Has birth and worth in Thee. |
|
Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee |
To gild his dross thereby, |
And knowledge sure that he endure |
A child until he die - |
For to make plain that man’s disdain |
Is but new Beauty’s birth - |
For to possess in singleness |
The joy of all the earth. |
|
As Thou didst teach all lovers speech, |
And Life all mystery, |
So shalt Thou rule by every school |
Till life and longing die, |
Who wast, or yet the Lights were set, |
A whisper in the Void, |
Who shalt be sung through planets young |
When this is clean destroyed. |
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Beyond the bounds our staring rounds, |
Across the pressing dark, |
|
Look hitherward and mark |
A light that shifts, a glare that drifts, |
Rekindling thus and thus - |
Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne |
Strange tales to them of us. |
|
Time hath no tide but must abide |
The servant of Thy will; |
Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme |
The ranging stars stand still - |
Regent of spheres that lock our fears, |
Our hopes invisible, |
Oh, ’twas certes at Thy decrees |
We fashioned Heaven and Hell! |
|
Pure Wisdom hath no certain path |
That lacks Thy morning-eyne, |
And Captains bold by Thee controlled |
Most like to Gods design. |
Thou art the Voice to kingly boys |
To lift them through the fight, |
And Comfortress of Unsuccess, |
To give the Dead good-night. |
|
’twixt God His Law |
And Man’s infirmity, |
A shadow kind to dumb and blind |
The shambles where we die; |
A rule to trick th’ arithmetic, |
Too base, of leaguing odds - |
The spur of trust, the curb of lust, |
Thou handmaid of the Gods! |
|
О Charity, all patiently |
Abiding wrack and scaith! |
О Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats |
Yet drops no jot of faith! |
Devil and brute Thou dost transmute |
To higher, lordlier show, |
Who art in sooth that lovely Truth |
The careless angels know! |
|
Thy face is far from this our war, |
Our call and counter-cry, |
I may not find Thee quick and kind, |
Nor know Thee till I die. |
Yet may I look with heart unshook |
On blow brought home or missed - |
|
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The clarions down the List; |
|
And ride the barriere - |
Oh, hit or miss, how little ’tis, |
My Lady is not there! |