Collected Works (Vol. I)

EPILOGUE Before the throne of God. Even so this life OF sordid strife Is nade most holy, beautiful, and pure, By this desire, if this desire endure. So to the altar of the Highest aspire Those souls whose fire as on it cast one grain of pure incense, (Who guesses—whence ?) Those souls that cast their trammels off, and spring On eager wing, Immaculate, new-born, toward the sky, And shall not die Until they cleave at last the lampless dome, And lose their tent because they find their home. KPILOGUE. LiKE snows on the mountain, uplifted By weather or wind as it blows, In hollows the heaps of it drifted, The splendour of fathomless snows ; So measure and meaning are shifted to fashion a rose, The garland I made in my sorrow Was woven of infinite peace; The joy that was white on the morrow Made music of viols at ease ; The thoughts of the Ilighest would borrow the rvar of the seas. This pastime of hope and of labour Iled singing through bountiful hours, With sleep for a bride, for a neighbour With Death in the blossoming bowers That slays with his merciless sabre the passion of flowers. This pastime had hope for its metre, And trust in high God for the tune, And passion of sorrow made sweeter Than loves of the leafiest June, When Artemis’ arrows are fleeter than rays of the moon. My hope in the ocean was founded, Nor changed for the wind and the tide; My love by the heaven was bounded, And knew not a barrier beside ; My faith beyond heaven was grounded, as God to abide. Though death be the stain on our roses, The roses of heaven are white ; Though day on the world of us closes The stars only dream of the night As of music that roars and reposes and dies in delight. Dead stars in the season of sighing, Lost worlds of unspeakable pain, White winds in the winter-tide dying, Or pestilence risen from rain ; So thoughts are that perish for lying and rise not again. Blue waves in the summer uncrested, New homes for the fair and the free, Bright breezes in forest-leaves nested, Sweet birds in the flowering tree ; So thoughts that by truth have been tested sing down to the sea. But weak as the flowers of summer Are the flowers that float on my stream ; My song-birds to others are dumber Than voices half heard in a dream; My muse, louder gods overcome her, the eyes of them gleam. The surrow that woke me to singing Is deeper than songs that I sing; ‘The birds that fresh music are bringing No chords for my memory bring; Those lips like a soul that are clinging most silently cling. Take thought for these verses, though time be So sure and so swift for thy feet, Though far from this England thy clime be? In years that sway slow as the wheat, Take thought, for an hour let my rhyme be not wholly unsweet. ! Julian Baker expected at this time to be abroad for some years.