But hardly was He dead, Than up this elemental demon sprang Assuming mastership of Jesus’ school Using his body, even, so it’s told Calling himself by name of _Jesus Risen_. Who was he? Some poor godling, fallen through pride And greed of human flesh, on evil days. He changed his heart and once more stood for power, A roaring lion in the white lamb’s fleece, So by a long campaign of self-abasement And self-effacement grown mob-strong at length He overturned high Heaven, now rules the world. Yes, he’s a powerful devil; we are his sons Got on she-furies of our Northern gales. We hate the inheritance entailed on us And the outlandish family coat we blazon, The tell-tale features also; would deny His fatherhood, but for that eye, that nose, Betraying Galilee our Father’s land. There’s no escape from him. Midwife Tradition Has knotted Jesus in our navel strings Never to be undone this side the grave.” But that was one stage worse than blasphemy. And when we parted, she smiled grudgingly. I had said too much and cut her to the quick. She thought, poor child, she had her choice to make Between God’s way and my way. And so she chose ... This letter ... But she writes of Christian love. What _is_ that? It’s a most annoying habit, A warm blood-teasing smile, an open look, A recognition—thinks I to myself, Boy, this is fine! Love at first sight! True love! But then the disillusionment—by God She turns the same look of those clear kind eyes On a bootblack, on some fool behind a counter. She calls that, Love? But what _is_ Love to me? Love; it’s a two-part game, I’d say, not merely The searching radiations from one eye, That fly about with indiscriminate force— Sometimes unthinking in a public place I stare at girls sitting sideface to me And wonder at their beauty, summing it up, Then being innocent girls (I’d never look At others so) they grow aware of the heat That pours out from my eyes; but do not see me. (I may be fifty feet away or more) They fidget in their seats, uncross their knees, Pull down their skirts to hide even their ankles, Blush furiously and gaze about, in trouble; Then I start guiltily, rise and walk away; But that’s not Love, the searching and the heat; Love is an act of God, akin to Faith, Call it the union of two prayers by Faith (Here we come back to prayer by a long circuit And back to “God is Love”) But to explain again what’s Faith, what’s prayer, That’s the teaser! much too hard for me.