“There was the poet Homer had the sorrow to be blind, Yet a hundred people with good eyes would listen to him all night; For they took great enjoyment in the heaven of his mind, And were glad when the old blind poet let them share his powers of sight. And there was Heine lying on his mattress all day long, He had no wealth, he had no friends, he had no joy at all, Except to pour his sorrow into little cups of song, And the world finds in them the magic wine that his broken heart let fall. “And these are only a couple of names from a list of a thousand score Who have put their glory on the world in poverty and pain. And the title of poet’s a noble thing, worth living and dying for, Though all the devils on earth and in Hell spit at me their disdain. It is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men: But Prometheus, torn by the claws and beaks whose task is never done, Would be tortured another eternity to go stealing fire again.” LIONEL JOHNSON (For the Rev. John J. Burke, C.S.P.) There was a murkier tinge in London’s air As if the honest fog blushed black for shame. Fools sang of sin, for other fools’ acclaim, And Milton’s wreath was tossed to Baudelaire. The flowers of evil blossomed everywhere, But in their midst a radiant lily came, Candescent, pure, a cup of living flame, Bloomed for a day, and left the earth more fair. And was it Charles, thy “fair and fatal King,” Who bade thee welcome to the lovely land? Or did Lord David cease to harp and sing To take in his thine emulative hand? Or did Our Lady’s smile shine forth, to bring Her lyric Knight within her choir to stand? FATHER GERARD HOPKINS, S.J. Why didst thou carve thy speech laboriously, And match and blend thy words with curious art? For Song, one saith, is but a human heart Speaking aloud, undisciplined and free. Nay, God be praised, Who fixed thy task for thee! Austere, ecstatic craftsman, set apart From all who traffic in Apollo’s mart, On thy phrased paten shall the Splendour be! Now, carelessly we throw a rhyme to God, Singing His praise when other songs are done. But thou, who knewest paths Teresa trod, Losing thyself, what is it thou hast won? O bleeding feet, with peace and glory shod! O happy moth, that flew into the Sun! GATES AND DOORS (For Richardson Little Wright) There was a gentle hostler (And blessèd be his name!) He opened up the stable The night Our Lady came. Our Lady and Saint Joseph, He gave them food and bed, And Jesus Christ has given him A glory round his head.