WHEN I was young how fair the skies, Such folly of cloud, such blue depths wise, Such dews of morn, such calms of eve, So many the lure and the reprieve-- Life seemed a toy to break and mend And make a charm of in the end. Then slowly all the dew dried up And only dust lay in the cup; And since, to slake his thirst, man must, I sought a cup that had no dust, And found it at the Goat and Vine-- Mingled of brandy, beer and wine. The goat-cup, straight, drew down the skies And lit them in lunatick wise: What had been rose went scarlet red, And the pearl tints grew like the dead. And the fresh primrose of the morn Was the wet red of rain-spoiled corn. Now, with a head that aches and nods I hold weak hands out to the gods; And oh! forgiving gods and kind, They give me healing to my mind, And show me once again the lawn Green and clear-gemmed with dews of dawn. O gods, who look down from above Upon our tangle of lust and love, And, in your purity, perceive The worth of what our follies leave: Give us but this, and sink the rest-- To know that dew and dawn are best. DE PROFUNDIS. NOW I am cast into the serpent pit And, catching difficult breath From the writhing, loathsome, ceaseless stir of it, The venomous whispers of curling, clasping Death, I lift my soul out of the pit to Thee And reaching with my soul to where Thou art Look down, seeing with free heart The beast God gave my soul for company Lie with companions fit; And bid, with a good will, The serpent-fangs of ill Take their foul fill Of the foul fell it wore. Though a thousand serpent heads were raised to slay, A thousand twisting coils writhed where it lay, There lies the beast, there let it lie for me And agonize and rave; For Thou has raised my soul, Thy soul, to Thee! Thy soul, dear Lord, Thou hast been strong to save! VIII. AT THE GATE. THE monastery towers, as pure and fair As virgin vows, reached up white hands to Heaven; The walls, to guard the hidden heart of prayer, Were strong as sin, and white as sin forgiven; And there came holy men, by world's woe driven; And all about the gold-green meadows lay Flower-decked, like children dear that keep May-holiday. "Here," said the Abbot, "let us spend our days, Days sweetened by the lilies of pure prayer, Hung with white garlands of the rose of praise; And, lest the World should enter with her snare-- Enter and laugh and take us unaware With her red rose, her purple and her gold-- Choose we a stranger's hand the porter's keys to hold." They chose a beggar from the world outside To keep their worldward door for them, and he, Filled with a humble and adoring pride, Built up a wall of proud humility Between the monastery's sanctity And the poor, foolish, humble folk who came To ask for love and care, in the dear Saviour's name.