Part 3

You were mine For the moment that a garland takes to twine, For the human hour that sorcery shews divine You were mine.

All is over. You and I no more are love and lover; Nought’s to seek now, gain, attain, discover. All is over.

THE GIFT OF LIFE

LIFE is a night all dark and wild, Yet still stars shine: This moment is a star, my child— Your star and mine.

Life is a desert dry and drear, Undewed, unblest; This hour is an oasis, dear; Here let us rest.

Life is a sea of windy spray, Cold, fierce and free: An isle enchanted is to-day For you and me.

Forget night, sea, and desert: take The gift supreme, And, of life’s brief relenting, make A deathless dream.

INCOMPATIBILITIES

IF you loved me I could trust you to your fancy’s furthest bound While the sun shone and the wind blew, and the world went round, To the utmost of the meshes of the devil’s strongest net . . . If you loved me, if you loved me—but you do not love me yet!

I love you—and I cannot trust you further than the door! But winds and worlds and seasons change, and you will love me more And more—until I trust you, dear, as women do trust men— I shall trust you, I shall trust you, but I shall not love you then!

THE STOLEN GOD LAZARUS TO DIVES

WE do not clamour for vengeance, We do not whine for fear; We have cried in the outer darkness Where was no man to hear. We cried to man and he heard not; Yet we thought God heard us pray; But our God, who loved and was sorry— Our God is taken away.

Ours were the stream and the pasture, Forest and fen were ours; Ours were the wild wood-creatures, The wild sweet berries and flowers. You have taken our heirlooms from us, And hardly you let us save Enough of our woods for a cradle, Enough of our earth for a grave.

You took the wood and the cornland, Where still we tilled and felled; You took the mine and quarry, And all you took you held. The limbs of our weanling children You crushed in your mills of power; And you made our bearing women toil To the very bearing hour.

You have taken our clean quick longings, Our joy in lover and wife, Our hope of the sunset quiet At the evening end of life; You have taken the land that bore us, Its soil and stone and sod; You have taken our faith in each other— And now you have taken our God.

When our God came down from Heaven He came among men, a Man, Eating and drinking and working As common people can; And the common people received Him While the rich men turned away. But what have we to do with a God To whom the rich men pray?

He hangs, a dead God, on your altars, Who lived a Man among men, You have taken away our Lord And we cannot find Him again. You have not left us a handful Of even the earth He trod . . . You have made Him a rich man’s idol Who came as a poor man’s God.

He promised the poor His heaven, He loved and lived with the poor; He said that the rich man’s shadow Should never darken His door: But bishops and priests lie softly, Drink full and are fully fed In the Name of the Lord, who had not Where to lay His head.

This is the God you have stolen, As you steal all else—in His name. You have taken the ease and the honour, Left us the toil and the shame. You have chosen the seat of Dives, We lie where Lazarus lay; But, by God, we will not yield you our God, You shall not take Him away.

All else we had you have taken; All else, but not this, not this. The God of Heaven is ours, is ours, And the poor are His, are His. Is He ours? Is He yours? Give answer! For both He cannot be. And if He is ours—O you rich men, Then whose, in God’s name, are ye?

WINTER

HOLD your hands to the blaze; Winter is here With the short cold days, Bleak, keen and drear. Was there ever a day With hawthorn along the way Where you wandered in mild mid-May With your dear?

That was when you were young And the world was gold; Now all the songs are sung, The tales all told. You shiver now by the fire Where the last red sparks expire; Dead are delight and desire: You are old.

SEA-SHELLS

I GATHERED shells upon the sand, Each shell a little perfect thing, So frail, yet potent to withstand The mountain-waves’ wild buffeting. Through storms no ship could dare to brave The little shells float lightly, save All that they might have lost of fine Shape and soft colour crystalline.

Yet I amid the world’s wild surge Doubt if my soul can face the strife, The waves of circumstance that urge That slight ship on the rocks of life. O soul, be brave, for He who saves The frail shell in the giant waves, Will bring thy puny bark to land Safe in the hollow of His hand.

HOPE

O THRUSH, is it true? Your song tells Of a world born anew, Of fields gold with buttercups, woodlands all blue With hyacinth bells; Of primroses deep In the moss of the lane, Of a Princess asleep And dear magic to do. Will the sun wake the princess? O thrush, is it true? Will Spring come again?