And I am come to Mary’s shrine To lay my hopes within her hand-- Ah, in how fair and green a line The seedling resolutions stand. THE CONFESSIONAL BY HELEN PARRY EDEN My Sorrow diligent would sweep That dingy room infest With dust (thereby I mean my soul) Because she hath a Guest Who doth require that self-same room Be garnished for His rest. And Sorrow (who had washed His feet Where He before had been) Took the long broom of Memory And swept the corners clean, Till in the midst of the fair floor The sum of dust was seen. It lay there, settled by her tears, That fell the while she swept-- Light fluffs of grey and earthly dregs; And over these she wept, For all were come since last her Guest Within the room had slept. And, for nor broom nor tears had power To lift the clods of ill, She called one servant of her Guest Who came with right good will, For, by his sweet Lord’s bidding, he Waiteth on Sorrow still; So, seeing she had done her part As far as in her lay And had intent to keep the place More cleanly from that day, Did with his Master’s dust-pan come And take the dust away. She thanked him, and Him who sent Such succor, and she spread Fair sheets of Thankfulness and Love Upon her Master’s bed, Then on the new-scoured threshold stood And listened for His tread. AN ELEGY, FOR FATHER ANSELM, OF THE ORDER OF REFORMED CISTERCIANS, GUEST-MASTER AND PARISH PRIEST “Et pastores erant in regione eadem vigilantes” BY HELEN PARRY EDEN You to whose soul a death propitious brings Its Heaven, who attain a windless bourne Of sanctity beyond all sufferings, It is not ours to mourn; For you, to whom the earth could nothing give, Who knew no hint of our inspired pride, You could not very well be said to live Until the day you died. ’Tis upon us--father and kindly friend, Holy and cheerful host--the unbidden guest You welcomed and the souls you would amend, The weight of sorrow rests. From Sarum in the mesh of her five streams, Her idle belfries and her glittering vanes, We are clomb to where the cloud-race dusks and gleams On turf of upland plains. Southward the road through juniper and briar Clambers the down, untrodden and unworn Save where some flock pitted the chalky mire With little feet at dawn. Twice in a week the hooded carrier’s lamp, Flashing on wayside flints and grasses, spills Its misty radiance where the dews lie damp Among the untended hills; Here lies the hamlet ringed with grassy mound And brambled barrow where, superbly dead, The dust of pagans turned to holy ground Beneath your humble tread.