Dreams and Images: An Anthology of Catholic Poets — Key Ideas to Explore

wild, Over the camel’s ford.

And a long song She sang to Him And a short story told: And She wrapped Him in a woolen cloak To keep Him from the cold.

But when Our Lord was grown a man The Rich they dragged Him down, And they crucified Him in Golgotha, Out and beyond the Town.

They crucified Him on Calvary, Upon an April day; And because He had been her little Son She followed Him all the way.

Our Lady stood beside the Cross, A little space apart, And when She heard Our Lord cry out A sword went through Her Heart.

They laid Our Lord in a marble tomb, Dead, in a winding sheet. But Our Lady stands above the world With the white Moon at Her feet.

TO THE BALLIOL MEN STILL IN AFRICA

Years ago when I was at Balliol, Balliol men--and I was one-- Swam together in winter rivers, Wrestled together under the sun. And still in the heart of us, Balliol, Balliol, Loved already, but hardly known, Welded us each of us into the others: Called a levy and chose her own.

Here is a House that armours a man With the eyes of a boy and the heart of a ranger, And a laughing way in the teeth of the world And a holy hunger and thirst for danger: Balliol made me, Balliol fed me, Whatever I had she gave me again: And the best of Balliol loved and led me, God be with you, Balliol men.

I have said it before, and I say it again, There was treason done, and a false word spoken, And England under the dregs of men, And bribes about, and a treaty broken: But angry, lonely, hating it still, I wished to be there in spite of the wrong. My heart was heavy for Cumnor Hill And the hammer of galloping all day long.

Galloping outward into the weather, Hands a-ready and battle in all: Words together and wine together And song together in Balliol Hall. Rare and single! Noble and few!... Oh! they have wasted you over the sea! The only brothers ever I knew, The men that laughed and quarrelled with me.

Balliol made me, Balliol fed me, Whatever I had she gave me again; And the best of Balliol loved and led me, God be with you, Balliol men.

When I am living in the Midlands That are sodden and unkind, I light my lamp in the evening: My work is left behind; And the great hills of the South Country Come back into my mind.

The great hills of the South Country They stand along the sea; And it’s there walking in the high woods That I could wish to be, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Walking along with me.

The men that live in North England I saw them for a day: Their hearts are set upon the waste fells, Their skies are fast and grey; From their castle-walls a man may see; The mountains far away.

The men that live in West England They see the Severn strong, A-rolling on rough water brown, Light aspen leaves along. They have the secret of the Rocks, And the oldest kind of song.

But the men that live in the South Country Are the kindest and most wise, They get their laughter from the loud surf, And the faith in their happy eyes Comes surely from our Sister the Spring When over the sea she flies; The violets suddenly bloom at her feet, She blesses us with surprise.

I never get between the pines But I smell the Sussex air; Nor I never come on a belt of sand But my home is there. And along the sky the line of Downs So noble and so bare.

A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend: And I fear I shall be all alone When I get towards the end. Who will there be to comfort me Or who will be my friend?

I will gather and carefully make my friends Of the men of the Sussex Weald, They watch the stars from silent folds, They stiffly plough the field. By them and the God of the South Country My poor soul shall be healed.

If I ever become a rich man, Or if ever I grow to be old, I will build a house with deep thatch To shelter me from the cold, And there shall the Sussex songs be sung And the story of Sussex told.

I will hold my house in the high wood Within a walk of the sea, And the men that were boys when I was a boy Shall sit and drink with me.

The moon on the one hand, the dawn on the other: The moon is my sister, the dawn is my brother, The moon on my left and the dawn on my right. My brother, good morning: my sister, good night.

THE PROPHET LOST IN THE HILLS AT EVENING

Strong God which made the topmost stars To circulate and keep their course, Remember me; whom all the bars Of sense and dreadful fate enforce.

Above me in your heights and tall, Impassable the summits freeze, Below the haunted waters call Impassable beyond the trees.

I hunger and I have no bread. My gourd is empty of the wine. Surely the footsteps of the dead Are shuffling softly close to mine!

It darkens. I have lost the ford. There is a change on all things made. The rocks have evil faces, Lord, And I am awfully afraid.

Remember me! the Voids of Hell Expand enormous all around. Strong friend of souls, Emmanuel, Redeem me from accursed ground.

The long descent of wasted days, To these at last have led me down; Remember that I filled with praise The meaningless and doubtful ways That lead to an eternal town.

I challenged and I kept the Faith, The bleeding path alone I trod; It darkens. Stand about my wraith, And harbour me--almighty God!

When Jesus Christ was four years old, The angels brought Him toys of gold, Which no man ever had bought or sold.

And yet with these He would not play. He made Him small fowl out of clay, And blessed them till they flew away: _Tu creasti Domine_.

Jesus Christ, Thou child so wise, Bless mine hands and fill mine eyes, And bring my soul to Paradise.

Of Courtesy, it is much less Than Courage of Heart or Holiness, Yet in my Walks it seems to me That the Grace of God is in Courtesy.

On Monks I did in Storrington fall, They took me straight into their Hall; I saw Three Pictures on a wall, And Courtesy was in them all.

The first Annunciation; The second the Visitation; The third the Consolation, Of God that was Our Lady’s Son.

The first was of Saint Gabriel; On Wings a-flame from Heaven he fell; And as he went upon one knee He shone with Heavenly Courtesy.

Our Lady out of Nazareth rode---- It was her month of heavy load; Yet was Her face both great and kind, For Courtesy was in Her Mind.

The third it was our Little Lord, Whom all the Kings in arms adored; He was so small you could not see His large intent of Courtesy.

Our Lord, that was Our Lady’s Son, Go bless you, People, one by one; My Rhyme is written, my work is done.

On a winter’s night long time ago (_The bells ring loud and the bells ring low_), When high howled wind, and down fell snow (Carillon, Carilla). Saint Joseph he and Notre Dame, Riding on an ass, full weary came From Nazareth into Bethlehem, And the small child Jesus smile on you.

And Bethlehem inn they stood before (_The bells ring less and the bells ring more_), The landlord bade them begone from his door (Carillon, Carilla). “Poor folk” (says he), “must lie where they may, For the Duke of Jewry comes this way, With all his train on a Christmas Day.” And the small child Jesus smile on you.

Poor folk that may my carol hear (_The bells ring single and the bells ring clear_), See! God’s one child had hardest cheer! (Carillon, Carilla). Men grown hard on a Christmas morn; The dumb beast by and a babe forlorn. It was very, very cold when our Lord was born. And the small child Jesus smile on you.

Now these were Jews as Jews may be (_The bells ring merry and the bells ring free_). But Christian men in a band are we (Carillon, Carilla). Empty we go, and ill be-dight, Singing Noel on a Winter’s night. Give us to sup by the warm firelight, And the small child Jesus smile on you.

BY ROBERT HUGH BENSON

What hast thou learnt to-day? Hast thou sounded awful mysteries, Hast pierced the veiléd skies, Climbed to the feet of God, Trodden where saints have trod, Fathomed the heights above? _Nay, This only have I learnt, that God is love._

What hast thou heard to-day? Hast heard the Angel-trumpets cry, And rippling harps reply; Heard from the Throne of flame Whence God incarnate came Some thund’rous message roll? _Nay, This have I heard, His voice within my soul._

What hast thou felt to-day? The pinions of the Angel-guide That standeth at thy side In rapturous ardours beat, Glowing, from head to feet, In ecstasy divine? _Nay, This only have I felt, Christ’s hand in mine._

THE TERESIAN CONTEMPLATIVE

BY ROBERT HUGH BENSON

She moves in tumult; round her lies The silence of the world of grace; The twilight of our mysteries Shines like high noonday on her face; Our piteous guesses, dim with fears, She touches, handles, sees, and hears.

In her all longings mix and meet; Dumb souls through her are eloquent; She feels the world beneath her feet Thrill in a passionate intent; Through her our tides of feeling roll And find their God within her soul.

Her faith and awful Face of God Brightens and blinds with utter light; Her footsteps fall where late He trod; She sinks in roaring voids of night; Cries to her Lord in black despair, And knows, yet knows not, He is there.

A willing sacrifice she takes The burden of our fall within; Holy she stands; while on her breaks The lightning of the wrath of sin; She drinks her Saviour’s cup of pain, And, one with Jesus, thirsts again.

BY WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT

How shall I build my temple to the Lord, Unworthy I, who am thus foul of heart? How shall I worship who no traitor word Know but of love to play a suppliant’s part? How shall I pray, whose soul is as a mart, For thoughts unclean, whose tongue is as a sword Even for those it loves, to wound and smart? Behold how little I can help Thee, Lord.

The Temple I would build should be all white, Each stone the record of a blameless day; The souls that entered there should walk in light, Clothed in high chastity and wisely gay. Lord, here is darkness. Yet this heart unwise, Bruised in Thy service, take in sacrifice.

BY WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT

O fly not, Pleasure, pleasant-hearted Pleasure; Fold me thy wings, I prithee, yet and stay: For my heart no measure Knows, or other treasure To buy a garland for my love to-day.

And thou, too, Sorrow, tender-hearted Sorrow, Thou gray-eyed mourner, fly not yet away: For I fain would borrow Thy sad weeds to-morrow, To make a mourning for love’s yesterday.

The voice of Pity, Time’s divine dear Pity, Moved me to tears: I dared not say them nay, But passed forth from the city, Making thus my ditty Of fair love lost forever and a day.

BY WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT

Dark to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens. Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars? Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city. A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain.

Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters, Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love. Birds in the boughs were awake; I listen’d to their chaunting; Each one sang to his love; only I was alone.

This, I said in my heart, is the hour of life and pleasure. Now each creature on earth has his joy, and lives in the sun, Each in another’s eyes finds light, the light of compassion, This is the moment of pity, this is the moment of love.

Speak, O desolate city! Speak, O silence in sadness! Where is she that loved in my strength, that spoke to my soul? Where are those passionate eyes that appealed to my eyes in passion? Where is the mouth that kiss’d me, the breast that I laid to my own?

Speak, thou soul of my soul, for rage in my heart is kindled. Tell me, where didst thou flee in the day of destruction and fear? See, my arms enfold thee, enfolding thus all heaven, See, my desire is fulfilled in thee, for it fills the earth.

Thus in my grief I lamented. Then turned I from the window, Turn’d to the stair, and the open door, and the empty street, Crying aloud in my grief, for there was none to chide me, None to mock my weakness, none to behold my tears.

Groping I went, as blind. I sought her house, my beloved’s. There I stopp’d at the silent door, and listen’d and tried the latch. Love, I cried, dost thou slumber? This is no hour for slumber, This is the hour of love, and love I bring in my hand.

I knew the house with its windows barr’d, and its leafless fig-tree, Climbing round by the doorstep, the only one in the street; I knew where my hope had climbed to its goal and there encircled, All those desolate walls once held, my beloved’s heart.

There in my grief she consoled me. She loved when I loved not. She put her hand in my hand, and set her lips to my lips. She told me all her pain and show’d me all her trouble. I, like a fool, scarce heard, hardly return’d her kiss.

Love, thy eyes were like torches. They changed as I beheld them. Love, thy lips were like gems, the seal thou settest on my life. Love, if I loved not then, behold this hour thy vengeance; This is the fruit of thy love and thee, the unwise grown wise.

Weeping strangled my voice. I call’d out, but none answered; Blindly the windows gazed back at me, dumbly the door; She whom I love, who loved me, look’d not on my yearning, Gave me no more her hands to kiss, show’d me no more her soul.

Therefore the earth is dark to me, the sunlight blackness, Therefore I go in tears and alone, by night and day; Therefore I find my love in heaven, no light, no beauty, A heaven taken by storm, where none are left but the slain!

O Lord, as You lay so soft and white, A Babe in a manger stall, With the big star flashing across the night, Did you know and pity us all? Did the wee hands, close as a rosebud curled, With the call of their mission ache, To be out and saving a weary world For Your merciful Father’s sake?

Did You hear the cries of the groping blind, The woe of the leper’s prayer, The surging sorrow of all mankind, As You lay by Your Mother there? Beyond the shepherds, low bending down, The long, long road did You see That led from peaceful Bethlehem town To the summit of Calvary?

The world grown weary of wasting strife, Had called for the Christ to rise; For sin had poisoned the springs of life And only the dead were wise. But, wrapped in a dream of scornful pride, Too high were its eyes to see A Child, foredoomed to be crucified, On a peasant Mother’s knee.

But, while the heavens with glad acclaim Sang out the tale of Your birth, A mystic echo of comfort came To the desolate souls of earth. For the thrill of a slowly turning tide Was felt in that grey daybreak, As if God, the Father, had sanctified All sorrow for One Man’s sake.

O Child of the Promise! Lord of Love! O Master of all the earth! While the angels are singing their songs above, We bring our gifts to Your birth. Just the blind man’s cry, and the lame man’s pace, And the leper’s pitiful call; On these, over infinite fields of space, Look down, for You know them all.

Little Christ was good, and lay Sleeping, smiling in the hay; Never made the cows round eyes Open wider at His cries; Never when the night was dim, Startled guardian Seraphim, Who above Him in the beams Kept their watch round His white dreams; Let the rustling brown mice creep Undisturbed about His sleep. Yet if it had not been so-- Had He been like one I know, Fought with little fumbling hands, Kicked inside His swaddling bands, Puckered wilful crimsoning face-- Mary Mother, full of grace, At that little naughty thing, Still had been a-worshipping.

Be pitiful, my God! No hard-won gifts I bring-- But empty, pleading hands To Thee at evening.

Spring came, white-browed and young, I, too, was young with Spring. There was a blue, blue heaven Above a skylark’s wing.

Youth is the time for joy, I cried, it is not meet To mount the heights of toil With child-soft feet.

When Summer walked the land In Passion’s red arrayed, Under green sweeping boughs My couch I made.

The noon-tide heat was sore, I slept the Summer through; An angel waked me--“Thou Hast work to do.”

I rose and saw the sheaves Upstanding in a row; The reapers sang Thy praise While passing to and fro.

My hands were soft with ease, Long were the Autumn hours; I left the ripened sheaves For poppy-flowers.

But lo! now Winter glooms, And gray is in my hair, Whither has flown the world I found so fair?

My patient God, forgive! Praying Thy pardon sweet I lay a lonely heart Before Thy feet.

_In Tir-na’n-Og, In Tir-na’n-Og,_ Summer and spring go hand in hand, and in the radiant weather Brown autumn leaves and winter snow come floating down together.

_In Tir-na’n-Og, In Tir-na’n-Og,_ The sagans sway this way and that, the twisted fern uncloses, The quicken-berry hides its red above the tender roses.

_In Tir-na’n-Og, In Tir-na’n-Og,_ The blackbird lilts, the robin chirps, the linnet wearies never, They pipe to dancing feet of _Sidhe_ and thus shall pipe forever.

_In Tir-na’n-Og, In Tir-na’n-Og,_ All in a drift of apple blooms my true love there is roaming, He will not come although I pray from dawning until gloaming.

_In Tir-na’n-Og, In Tir-na’n-Og,_ The _Sidhe_ desired my Heart’s Delight, they lured him from my keeping, He stepped within a fairy ring while all the world was sleeping.

_In Tir-na’n-Og, In Tir-na’n-Og,_ He hath forgotten hill and glen where misty shadows gather, The bleating of the mountain sheep, the cabin of his father.

_In Tir-na’n-Og, In Tir-na’n-Og,_ He wanders in a happy dream thro’ scented golden hours, He flutes, to woo a fairy love, knee deep in fairy flowers.

_In Tir-na’n-Og, In Tir-na’n-Og,_ No memory hath he of my face, no sorrow for my sorrow, My flax is spun, my wheel is hushed, and so I wait the morrow.

BY P. J. CARROLL, C.S.C.

Through the long August day, mantled blue with a sky of Our Lady, They are there at the well from the dawn till the sea birds go home; And the trees bending down with broad leaves offer spots that are shady, Where the heart is at rest, sighing prayers till the shadows are come.

The brown beads and the crucifix pass in procession through fingers That are pale as the snow or are hardened from labor and pain. In each _Ave_ they whisper the deep Celtic tenderness lingers, Like a sweet phrase in song that is echoed and echoed again.