She kisses His feet and she cries out for pardon, With tears and with kisses His feet are all wet; The boys are all staring and no word is said, For she wipes His wet feet with the hair of her head— Her lovely brown hair that no boy can forget, It is like a brown beech-wood, the hair of her head. From Horeham Road to Boreham Street And High Horse Bridge where the waters meet— East or west, was there ever seen Such a sighing, such a crying for Mary Magdalene? And the Preacher has stooped, and has blessed her and raised her, And the boys are all laughing to see them stand so: “Ah, lovely, and have you forgotten so soon The ways of a woman, the ways of the moon, And all the gay gallants with whom you would go And show them the madness that’s under the moon?” The Preacher has brought Magdalene to His mother, And His mother has given her a white gown to wear, And they’ve sat down to supper together all three, And the boys stand outside in the street and agree That the joke’s gone too far—“Come out, Mary, my dear, For you and these strangers will never agree.” But Mary Magdalene has looked out of the window— She stands in the window all white and alone— “I will never return while the stars are above To the ways that were far from the true ways of love. Oh, many a lover poor Mary has known, But never till now has she learned to know love.” From Horeham Road to Boreham Street And High Horse Bridge where the waters meet— East or west, was there ever seen Such a story, such a glory for Mary Magdalene? ST. MATTHEW Matthew the Publican sits at the gate of September, Counting the gold of the passing and vanishing year— The gold that the Summer must pay with her tears and sighings— The gold of the falling leaves. The Lord goes by and, turning, says unto Matthew: “Follow Me—follow Me down the long months into Winter, “Follow Me—follow Me down through the fogs of November, “When the coin of the year is spent and the trees are beggared, “With never a golden leaf to drop at the gate— “Follow Me.” Matthew the Publican rises to follow his Lord; But first he will make a feast at the gate of September— He will make a feast for the sinners and Saints of the year. The way is long and the Autumn paths are dreary, So before he treads the dark road into the rain He makes a great golden feast, the last feast of Summer, And he throws his golden treasury over the fields. The dying, fluttering, shimmering leaves of September, The last of the daisies and coltsfoot and dandelions, Are Matthew the Publican’s treasure, his gold and silver, Which he throws at his Master’s feet, the feet he must follow Down, down the Autumn, into the fogs— To the end of the year. THE ASCENSION DAY