Collected Poems by William Alexander Percy Read Free Book Online

dearest page.
                                                      Let me see … ah …
        The book is not so full of tales for birds;
                             ’Twas writ for men, you see.
                   I doubt not men had far the greater need —
                             ’Twas not because he loved you less!
    But now I do recall a story; one you’ll love —
                                            That day by Jordan!
    They had been urchin comrades years before,
    That lonely Jordan prophet and our Lord,
        But him the wilderness and stars and solitude
                   Had swallowed up this many a day.
                             So now his eyes were full of tears
    To see, across the grass where all the people sat,
    The little boy he loved run to him, call his name,
                   And in the cool, clear water kneel
                                            To beg his blessing.
        The desert had not dried his heart away;
    And so he wept, and clasped Him close, and prayed.…
                             But I’d forgot the Holy Ghost!
                                            He could have been
    A scarlet cloud of seraphim, a lightning bolt,
                             Fire or darkness, what He willed!
    But what chose He? what creature honored there?
    From out of Heaven He flew — a lovely dove!
                             That was a day for birds!
    Sure, you must love the Holy Ghost — and keep
    Your hearts and plumage clean and bright for Him,
    And make your mourning baths baptismal in a way!
                   Another story I recall, dear children.
                   But whether it be writ or only dreamed
                                            I cannot say.… Gethsemane …
        My heart is there so much, I do remember more,
        Perhaps, than they that set it down.…
        It is not spring talk for a golden dawn,
        But even you, gleamers of God, should know.
        Before the end He longed to come once more
        To that familiar garden that He loved.
        Its olive trees and sandy barrenness
    That drank the moon were home to Him,
        For other home He had not, save
    Such waste and lonely places off the way
    As men forgot. And so that night, the last, He knew,
    That He might pray together with the twelve,
    He came unto the garden where it lay
    All full of moonlight and of silence,
    And with Him brought for comfort them He loved.
    Indeed, He loved us all — too well, too well —
    But ah, the mortal of His heart had need to choose
    For special tenderness, those few.
    How tired He was! Oh, weary unto death;
    And needed most mere human love!
    But they whom He had chosen, whom He loved,
    His own, His very own — they slept!
    God! God!
    Had Lancelot or Tristran been His knights,
    They had not slept.…
    When those we love have failed us in our need
    There is no bitterness undrunk for death.…
    That night, as thus He lay,
    After the prayer, too tired for tears,
    And even God forgot Him with the rest,
    I think that one of you, beholding from
    The shadows where you hid, that agony,
    Trembled and paused and bent your head,
    Then, for you knew no other, quavered forth
    Your silver serenade for healing to His heart.…
    The torches and the sudden faces broke
    Your song.… Likely He never heard …
    But only you bethought to comfort Him that night.…
    They slept … God! Let me back into the world!
                             Lest coming suddenly again
                             He finds them sleeping