Frost of the hedge-row, flash of the jasmine, sparkle of dew on the leaf, Seas lit wide by the summer lightning, shafts from thy diamond sheaf, Deeply they pierced him, deeply he loved thee, now has he found thy soul, Artemis, thine, in this bridal peal, where we hear but the death-bell toll. THE TESTIMONY OF ART As earth, sad earth, thrusts many a gloomy cape Into the sea's bright colour and living glee, So do we strive to embay that mystery Which earthly hands must ever let escape; The Word we seek for is the golden shape That shall enshrine the Soul we cannot see, A temporal chalice of Eternity Purple with beating blood of the hallowed grape. Once was it wine and sacramental bread Whereby we knew the power that through Him smiled When, in one still small utterance, He hurled The Eternities beneath His feet and said With lips, O meek as any little child, _Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world._ THE SCHOLARS Where is the scholar whose clear mind can hold The floral text of one sweet April mead?-- The flowing lines, which few can spell indeed Though most will note the scarlet and the gold Around the flourishing capitals grandly scrolled; But ah, the subtle cadences that need The lover's heart, the lover's heart to read, And ah, the songs unsung, the tales untold. Poor fools-capped scholars--grammar keeps us close, The primers thrall us, and our eyes grow dim: When will old Master Science hear the call, Bid us run free with life in every limb To breathe the poems and hear the last red rose Gossiping over God's grey garden-wall? RESURRECTION Once more I hear the everlasting sea Breathing beneath the mountain's fragrant breast, _Come unto Me, come unto Me, And I will give you rest._ We have destroyed the Temple and in three days He hath rebuilt it--all things are made new: And hark what wild throats pour His praise Beneath the boundless blue. We plucked down all His altars, cried aloud And gashed ourselves for little gods of clay! Yon floating cloud was but a cloud, The May no more than May. We plucked down all His altars, left not one Save where, perchance (and ah, the joy was fleet), We laid our garlands in the sun At the white Sea-born's feet. We plucked down all His altars, not to make The small praise greater, but the great praise less, We sealed all fountains where the soul could slake Its thirst and weariness. "Love" was too small, too human to be found In that transcendent source whence love was born: We talked of "forces": heaven was crowned With philosophic thorn.