Poems
There runs no murmur through the street,
No voice of mirth, no hushed replies;
And no man's sorrow incomplete
Breaks that grey woe that round him lies,
Or strives to stay his quiet feet.
No voice of mirth, no hushed replies;
And no man's sorrow incomplete
Breaks that grey woe that round him lies,
Or strives to stay his quiet feet.
God surely made beyond desire,
Even of an angel, his great soul,
And filled it with eternal fire,
And wrought for it an aureole
With flames for ever leaping higher
Even of an angel, his great soul,
And filled it with eternal fire,
And wrought for it an aureole
With flames for ever leaping higher
To flush the ages with their light,
Intense in power that should consume
Men's souls, and clear their darkened sight
Which Time's own fingers should relume—
His own breath blow the flame more bright.
Intense in power that should consume
Men's souls, and clear their darkened sight
Which Time's own fingers should relume—
His own breath blow the flame more bright.
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