English

A homeless spirit in a homeless world astray,
I chase forever shadows through the pathless way,

Yearning for joys beyond this world of care,
And leap the present, seeking future life to share—

But seek in vain! Some hearts are constant, always true,
But such, indeed, how rare they are, and Oh, how few!

Yet, from the galling present would we haste away,
Blindly groping, ever seeking eternal day.

A homeless spirit in a homeless world astray,
I chase forever shadows through the pathless way,

I walked beside full-flooding Thames to-night
Westward; upon my face the sunset fell:
The hour, the spacious evening, pleased me well.
Buoyant the air breathed after rain, and kind
To senses flattered with soft sound and light
Of merry waves that leapt against the wind,
Where, broadly heaving barge and boat at rest,
The River came at flood; from golden skies
Issuing through arches, black upon the West,
To flame before the sunset's mysteries.

Far off to-night as a remembered dream
That different Thames, familiar as a friend,

The tongs I send acceptance wait,
To greet you in your married state.
Where is the sugar? should you ask;
The sweets to find must be your task.

Delightful walks
After the heat of the day was passed—
Seeing far off in the west
The coast of England,
Like a cloud crested
With Dover castle,
Which was but like the summit of the cloud;
The evening star
And the glory of the sky.
The reflections in the water
Were more beautiful
Than the sky itself,
Purple waves brighter
Than precious stones,
For ever melting away upon the sands.

Now came in view,
As the evening star sunk down,
And the colours of the west
Faded away,

Miss Hudson of Workington called.
She said, “I sow flowers in the parks
Several miles from home, and my mother and I
Visit them, and watch them how they grow.”

This may show that botanists
May be often deceived
When they find rare flowers
Growing far from houses.

Whom all obey,—
Maker of man! who from Thy height
Badest the dull earth bring to light
All creeping things, and the fierce might
Of beasts of prey;—

And the huge make
Of wild or gentler animal,
Springing from nothing at Thy call,
To serve in their due time, and all
For sinners' sake;

Shield us from ill!
Come it by passion's sudden stress,
Lurk in our mind's habitual dress,
Or through our actions seek to press
Upon our will.

Vouchsafe the prize
Of sacred joy's perpetual mood,

Oholy Lord, who with the Children Three
Didst walk the piercing flame,
Help, in those trial-hours, which, save to Thee,
I dare not name;
Nor let these quivering eyes and sickening heart
Crumble to dust beneath the Tempter's dart.

Thou, who didst once Thy life from Mary's breast
Renew from day to day,
Oh, might her smile, severely sweet, but rest
On this frail clay!
Till I am Thine with my whole soul; and fear,
Not feel a secret joy, that Hell is near.

In the seven-times taken and re-taken town
Peace! The mind stops; sense argues against sense.
The August sun is ghostly in the street
As if the Silence of a thousand years
Were its familiar. All is as it was
At the instant of the shattering: flat-thrown walls;
Dislocated rafters; lintels blown awry
And toppling over; what were windows, mere
Gapings on mounds of dust and shapelessness;
Charred posts caught in a bramble of twisted iron;
Wires sagging tangled across the street; the black
Skeleton of a vine, wrenched from the old house

Where is the land that fathered, nourished, poured
The sap of a strong race into your veins,
Land of wide tilth, of farms and granaries stored,
Of old towers chiming over peaceful plains?

It is become a vision, barred away
Like light in cloud, a memory and belief
On those lost plains the Glory of yesterday
Builds her dark towers for the bells of Grief.

It is become a splendour-circled name
For all the world; a torch against the skies
Burns on that blood-spot, the unpardoned shame

this postcard has the Christmas
spirit with its Lutheran
steeple between the hills
its cow fence its fir tree
and a dirt farm in Thuringia

bright star,
unto you is born
this day a grub