Why do You thus devise Evil against her?’ ‘For that She is beautiful, delicate; Therefore.
Pain ebbs, And like cool balm, An opiate weariness Settles on eye-lids, on relaxed Pale wrists.
If itWere lighter touchThan petal of flower restingOn grass, oh still too heavy it were,Too heavy!
Three grey women walk with me Fate and Grief and Memory. My fate brought grief; my grief must be With me through Eternity, Such thy power, memory.Three grey women walk with me.
Thou hast Drawn laughter from A well of secret tears And thence so elvish it rings, -mocking And sweet.
Is it as plainly in our living shown,By which way the wind hath blown?
The old Old winds that blew When chaos was, what do They tell the clattered trees that I Should weep?
Not thou, White rose, but thy Ensanguined sister is The dear companion of my heart’s Shed blood.
Oh Lady, let the sad tears fall To speak thy pain, Gently as through the silver dusk The silver rain. Oh, let thy bosom breathe its grief In such soft sigh As hath the wind in gardens where Pale roses die.
Sea-foam And coral! Oh, I’ll Climb the great pasture rocks And dream me mermaid in the sun’s Gold flood.
Sun and wind and beat of sea,Great lands stretching endlessly…Where be bonds to bind the free?All the world was made for me!
If illness’ end be health regained then I Will pay you, Asculapeus, when I die.
Scarlet the poppies Blue the corn-flowers, Golden the wheat. Gold for the Eternal: Blue for Our Lady: Red for the five Wounds of her Son.
Reap, reap the grain and gather The sweet grapes from the vine; Our Lord’s mother is weeping, She hath nor bread nor wine; She is weeping. The Queen of Heaven, She hath nor bread nor wine.
With night’s Dim veil and blue I will cover my eyes, I will bind close my eyes that are So weary.
Still as On windless nights The moon-cast shadows are, So still will be my heart when I Am dead.
No guile? Nay, but so strangely He moves among us. . Not this Man but Barabbas! Release to us Barabbas!
Seen on a night in November How frail Above the bulk Of crashing water hangs, Autumn, evanescent, wan, The moon.
As it Were tissue of silver I’ll wear, O Fate, thy grey, And go mistily radiant, clad Like the moon.
Dost thou Not feel them slip, How cold! how cold! the moon’s Thin wavering finger-tips, along Thy throat?
But me They cannot touch, Old age and death. The strange And ignominious end of old Dead folk!
In your Curled petals what ghosts Of blue headlands and seas, What perfumed immortal breath sighing Of Greece.
Ere the horne’d owl hoot Once and twice and thrice there shall Go among the blind brown worms News of thy great burial; When the pomp is passed away, ‘Here’s a King,’ the worms shall say.