The Second Book of Modern Verse | Page 9

Thirteenth Century
The bells of Oseney
(Hautclere, Doucement, Austyn)
Chant sweetly
every day,
And sadly, for our sin.
The bells of Oseney
(John,
Gabriel, Marie)
Chant lowly,
Chant slowly,
Chant wistfully and holy
Of Christ, our Paladin.

Hautclere chants to the East
(His tongue is silvery high),
And
Austyn like a priest
Sends west a weighty cry.
But Doucement set
between
(Like an appeasive nun)
Chants cheerly,
Chants clearly,
As if Christ heard her nearly,
A plea to every sky.
A plea that John takes up
(He is the evangelist)
Till Gabriel's angel
cup
Pours sound to sun or mist.
And last of all Marie
(The
virgin-voice of God)
Peals purely,
Demurely,
And with a tone so surely
Divine, that all must hear.
The bells of Oseney
(Doucement, Austyn, Hautclere)
Pour ever day
by day
Their peals on the rapt air;
And with their mellow mates

(John, Gabriel, Marie)
Tell slowly,
Tell lowly,
Of Christ the High and Holy,
Who makes the whole
world fair.
Poets. [Joyce Kilmer]
Vain is the chiming of forgotten bells
That the wind sways above a
ruined shrine.
Vainer his voice in whom no longer dwells
Hunger
that craves immortal Bread and Wine.
Light songs we breathe that perish with our breath
Out of our lips that
have not kissed the rod.
They shall not live who have not tasted death.

They only sing who are struck dumb by God.
Acceptance. [Willard Wattles]
I cannot think nor reason,
I only know he came
With hands and feet
of healing
And wild heart all aflame.
With eyes that dimmed and softened
At all the things he saw,
And
in his pillared singing
I read the marching Law.

I only know he loves me,
Enfolds and understands --
And oh, his
heart that holds me,
And oh, his certain hands!
In the Hospital. [Arthur Guiterman]
Because on the branch that is tapping my pane
A sun-wakened
leaf-bud, uncurled,
Is bursting its rusty brown sheathing in twain,
I
know there is Spring in the world.
Because through the sky-patch whose azure and white
My window
frames all the day long,
A yellow-bird dips for an instant of flight,
I
know there is Song.
Because even here in this Mansion of Woe
Where creep the dull
hours, leaden-shod,
Compassion and Tenderness aid me, I know

There is God.
Overnight, a Rose. [Caroline Giltinan]
That overnight a rose could come
I one time did believe,
For when
the fairies live with one,
They wilfully deceive.
But now I know
this perfect thing
Under the frozen sod
In cold and storm grew
patiently
Obedient to God.
My wonder grows, since knowledge
came
Old fancies to dismiss;
And courage comes. Was not the rose

A winter doing this?
Nor did it know, the weary while,
What
color and perfume
With this completed loveliness
Lay in that
earthly tomb.
So maybe I, who cannot see
What God wills not to
show,
May, some day, bear a rose for Him
It took my life to grow.
The Idol-Maker prays. [Arthur Guiterman]
Great god whom I shall carve from this gray stone
Wherein thou liest, hid to all but me,
Grant thou that when my art
hath made thee known

And others bow, I shall not worship thee.
But, as I pray thee now,
then let me pray
Some greater god, -- like thee to be conceived
Within my soul, -- for
strength to turn away
From his new altar, when, that task achieved,
He, too, stands manifest.
Yea, let me yearn
From dream to grander dream! Let me not rest
Content at any goal!
Still bid me spurn
Each transient triumph on the Eternal Quest,
Abjuring godlings
whom my hand hath made
For Deity, revealed, but unportrayed!
Reveille. [Louis Untermeyer]
What sudden bugle calls us in the night
And wakes us from a dream
that we had shaped;
Flinging us sharply up against a fight
We
thought we had escaped.
It is no easy waking, and we win
No final peace; our victories are few.

But still imperative forces pull us in
And sweep us somehow
through.
Summoned by a supreme and confident power
That wakes our
sleeping courage like a blow,
We rise, half-shaken, to the challenging
hour,
And answer it -- and go.
The Breaking. [Margaret Steele Anderson]
(The Lord God speaks to a youth)
Bend now thy body to the common weight!
(But oh, that vine-clad
head, those limbs of morn!
Those proud young shoulders I myself
made straight!
How shall ye wear the yoke that must be worn?)

Look thou, my son, what wisdom comes to thee!
(But oh, that singing
mouth, those radiant eyes!
Those dancing feet -- that I myself made
free!
How shall I sadden them to make them wise?)
Nay then, thou shalt! Resist not, have a care!
(Yea, I must work my
plans who sovereign sit!
Yet do not tremble so! I cannot bear --

Though I am God -- to see thee so submit!)
The Falconer of God. [William Rose Benet]
I flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying.
I said, "Wait on, wait on,
while I ride below!
I shall start a heron soon
In the marsh beneath the moon --
A
strange white heron rising with silver on its wings,
Rising and crying
Wordless, wondrous things;
The secret of the
stars, of the world's heart-strings,
The answer to their woe.
Then stoop thou upon him, and grip and
hold