And the Lord came on, He came down, and saw That a soul was waiting there for Him, one without flaw, And they embraced in the churchyard where the robins play, And the daffodils hang down their heads, as they burn away. The Lord held his head fast, and you could see That he kissed the unsheathed ghost that was gone free-- As a hot sun, on a March day, kisses the cold ground; And the spirit answered, for he knew well that his peace was found. The spirit trembled, and sprang up at the Lord's word-- As on a wild, April day, springs a small bird-- So the ghost's feet lifting him up, he kissed the Lord's cheek, And for the greatness of their love neither of them could speak. But the Lord went then, to show him the way, Over the young crocuses, under the green may That was not quite in flower yet--to a far-distant land; And the ghost followed, like a naked cloud holding the sun's hand. A MAN DREAMS THAT HE IS THE CREATOR I sat in heaven like the sun Above a storm when winter was: I took the snowflakes one by one And turned their fragile shapes to glass: I washed the rivers blue with rain And made the meadows green again. I took the birds and touched their springs, Until they sang unearthly joys: They flew about on golden wings And glittered like an angel's toys: I filled the fields with flowers' eyes, As white as stars in Paradise. And then I looked on man and knew Him still intent on death--still proud; Whereat into a rage I flew And turned my body to a cloud: In the dark shower of my soul The star of earth was swallowed whole. * * * * * J. C. SQUIRE RIVERS Rivers I have seen which were beautiful, Slow rivers winding in the flat fens, With bands of reeds like thronged green swords Guarding the mirrored sky; And streams down-tumbling from the chalk hills To valleys of meadows and watercress-beds, And bridges whereunder, dark weed-coloured shadows, Trout flit or lie, I know those rivers that peacefully glide Past old towers and shaven gardens, Where mottled walls rise from the water And mills all streaked with flour; And rivers with wharves and rusty shipping, That flow with a stately tidal motion Towards their destined estuaries Full of the pride of power; Noble great rivers, Thames and Severn, Tweed with his gateway of many grey arches, Clyde, dying at sunset westward In a sea as red as blood; Rhine and his hills in close procession, Placid Elbe, Seine slaty and swirling, And Isar, son of the Alpine snows, A furious turquoise flood. All these I have known, and with slow eyes I have walked on their shores and watched them, And softened to their beauty and loved them Wherever my feet have been; And a hundred others also Whose names long since grew into me, That, dreaming in light or darkness, I have seen, though I have not seen.