All the old monks’ singing places Glimmered quick with flitting faces, Singing anthems, singing hymns Under carven cherubims. Ringer Dawe aloft could mark Faces at the window dark Crowding, crowding, row on row, Till all the Church began to glow. The chapel glowed, the nave, the choir, All the faces became fire Below the eastern window high To see Christ’s star come up the sky. Then they lifted hands and turned, And all their lifted fingers burned, Burned like the golden altar tallows, Burned like a troop of God’s own Hallows, Bringing to mind the burning time When all the bells will rock and chime And burning saints on burning horses Will sweep the planets from their courses And loose the stars to burn up night. Lord, give us eyes to bear the light. We all went quiet down the Scallenge Lest Police Inspector Drew should challenge. But ’Spector Drew was sleeping sweet, His head upon a charges sheet, Under the gas jet flaring full, Snorting and snoring like a bull, His bull cheeks puffed, his bull lips blowing, His ugly yellow front teeth showing. Just as we peeped we saw him fumble And scratch his head, and shift, and mumble. Down in the lane so thin and dark The tan-yards stank of bitter bark, The curate’s pigeons gave a flutter, A cat went courting down the gutter, And none else stirred a foot or feather. The houses put their heads together, Talking, perhaps, so dark and sly, Of all the folk they’d seen go by, Children, and men and women, merry all, Who’d some day pass that way to burial. EPILOGUE How swift the summer goes, Forget-me-not, pink, rose. The young grass when I started And now the hay is carted, And now my song is ended, And all the summer spended; The blackbird’s second brood Routs beech leaves in the wood; The pink and rose have speeded, Forget-me-not has seeded Only the winds that blew, The rain that makes things new, The earth that hides things old, And blessings manifold. O lovely lily clean, O lily springing green, O lily bursting white, Dear lily of delight, Spring in my heart agen That I may flower to men. _Selections from_ _THE WIDOW IN THE BYE STREET_ THE END Some of life’s sad ones are too strong to die, Grief doesn’t kill them as it kills the weak, Sorrow is not for those who sit and cry Lapped in the love of turning t’other cheek, But for the noble souls austere and bleak Who have had the bitter dose and drained the cup And wait for Death face fronted, standing up.