Classic Poem

SPRING

The rock-girt vale is bursting into flower,
And here I make my solitary moan —
" Alone, alone" — and was He not alone
Then when the faithful could not watch one hour?
When Fate and Death with all their gathered power
Encircled Him; and Fear and Black Despair
Stood near with levelled darts and mocking stare,
And bade Him yield — and did He shrink and cower,
Refuse the bitter cup, and summoning
The bright battalions of the host of heaven,
Avenge his slighted God-head? Power was His,
The power, the might, the majesty. The ring
Of cruel faces closed. The word was given.
He bowed his head, and yielded with a kiss.