No longer of Him be it said, “He hath no place to lay His head.” In every land a constant lamp Flames by His small and mighty camp. There is no strange and distant place That is not gladdened by His face. And every nation kneels to hail The Splendour shining through Its veil. Cloistered beside the shouting street, Silent, He calls me to His feet. Imprisoned for His love of me, He makes my spirit greatly free. And through my lips that uttered sin The King of Glory enters in. TO A BLACKBIRD AND HIS MATE WHO DIED IN THE SPRING (For Kenton) An iron hand has stilled the throats That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee And dammed the flood of silver notes That drenched the world in melody. The blosmy apple boughs are yearning For their wild choristers’ returning, But no swift wings flash through the tree. Ye that were glad and fleet and strong, Shall Silence take you in her net? And shall Death quell that radiant song Whose echo thrills the meadow yet? Burst the frail web about you clinging And charm Death’s cruel heart with singing Till with strange tears his eyes are wet. The scented morning of the year Is old and stale now ye are gone. No friendly songs the children hear Among the bushes on the lawn. When babies wander out a-Maying Will ye, their bards, afar be straying? Unhymned by you, what is the dawn? Nay, since ye loved ye cannot die. Above the stars is set your nest. Through Heaven’s fields ye sing and fly And in the trees of Heaven rest. And little children in their dreaming Shall see your soft black plumage gleaming And smile, by your clear music blest. THE FOURTH SHEPHERD (For Thomas Walsh) I On nights like this the huddled sheep Are like white clouds upon the grass, And merry herdsmen guard their sleep, And chat and watch the big stars pass. It is a pleasant thing to lie Upon the meadow on the hill With kindly fellowship near by Of sheep and men of gentle will. I lean upon my broken crook And dream of sheep and grass and men-- O shameful eyes that cannot look On any honest thing again! On bloody feet I clambered down And fled the wages of my sin, I am the leavings of the town, And meanly serve its meanest inn. I tramp the courtyard stones in grief, While sleep takes man and beast to her. And every cloud is calling “Thief!” And every star calls “Murderer!” The hand of God is sure and strong, Nor shall a man forever flee The bitter punishment of wrong. The wrath of God is over me! With ashen bread and wine of tears Shall I be solaced in my pain. I wear through black and endless years Upon my brow the mark of Cain. Poor vagabond, so old and mild, Will they not keep him for a night? And She, a woman great with child, So frail and pitiful and white.