A desert filled with shining sand, And still as death the skies that bend Where to horizon without end The rounding distances expand. A desert white with burning heat And parched silence without stir, And at its heart a voyager, Where Death and daggered noonday meet; And Thirst that grips him by the throat; When from the distance wreathing blue, No mirage, but a dream come true, Crowned palm-tree and pale waters float. To Christ upon the rood, when dim Fell on His brow the Shade accurst, So Mary slaked His burning thirst With her white soul held up to Him. EXTREME UNCTION BY ERNEST DOWSON Upon the eyes, the lips, the feet, On all the passages of sense, The atoning oil is spread with sweet Renewal of lost innocence. The feet, that lately ran so fast To meet desire, are soothly sealed; The eyes, that were so often cast On vanity, are touched and healed. From troublous sights and sounds set free In such a twilight hour of breath, Shall one retrace his life, or see, Through shadows, the true face of death? Vials of mercy! Sacring oils! I know not where nor when I come, Nor through what wanderings and toils, To crave of you Viaticum. Yet, when the walls of flesh grow weak, In such an hour, it well may be, Through mist and darkness, light will break, And each anointed sense will see. BENEDICTIO DOMINI BY ERNEST DOWSON Without, the sullen noises of the street! The voice of London, inarticulate, Hoarse and blaspheming, surges in to meet The silent blessing of the Immaculate. Dark is the church, and dim the worshippers, Hushed with bowed heads as though by some old spell, While through the incense-laden air there stirs The admonition of a silver bell. Dark is the church, save where the altar stands, Dressed like a bride, illustrious with light, Where one old priest exalts with tremulous hands The one true solace of man’s fallen plight. Strange silence here: without, the sounding street Heralds the world’s swift passage to the fire; O Benediction, perfect and complete! When shall men cease to suffer and desire? CARTHUSIANS BY ERNEST DOWSON Through what long heaviness, assayed in what strange fire, Have these white monks been brought into the way of peace, Despising the world’s wisdom and the world’s desire, Which from the body of this death bring no release? Within their austere walls no voices penetrate; A sacred silence only, as of death, obtains; Nothing finds entry here of loud or passionate; This quiet is the exceeding profit of their pain.