There is a wall of flesh before the eyes
  Of John, who yet perceives and hails his King.
  It is Our Lady's painful bliss to bring
Before mankind the Glory of the skies.
Her cousin feels her womb's sweet burden rise
  And leap with joy, and she comes forth to sing,
  With trembling mouth, her words of welcoming.
She knows her hidden God, and prophesies.

Saint John, pray for us, weary souls that tarry
  Where life is withered by sin's deadly breath.
Pray for us, whom the dogs of Satan harry,
  Saint John, Saint Anne, and Saint Elizabeth.
And, Mother Mary, give us Christ to carry
  Within our hearts, that we may conquer death.

I take my leave, with sorrow, of Him I love so well;
I look my last upon His small and radiant prison-cell;
O happy lamp! to serve Him with never ceasing light!
O happy flame! to tremble forever in His sight!

I leave the holy quiet for the loudly human train,
And my heart that He has breathed upon is filled with lonely pain.
O King, O Friend, O Lover!  What sorer grief can be
In all the reddest depths of Hell than banishment from Thee?

But from my window as I speed across the sleeping land
I see the towns and villages wherein His houses stand.
Above the roofs I see a cross outlined against the night,
And I know that there my Lover dwells in His sacramental might.

Dominions kneel before Him, and Powers kiss His feet,
Yet for me He keeps His weary watch in the turmoil of the street:
The King of Kings awaits me, wherever I may go,
O who am I that He should deign to love and serve me so?

The roar of the world is in my ears.
  Thank God for the roar of the world!
Thank God for the mighty tide of fears
  Against me always hurled!

Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife,
  And the sting of His chastening rod!
Thank God for the stress and the pain of life,
  And Oh, thank God for God!

The garden of God is a radiant place,
And every flower has a holy face:
Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod,
But Saint Michael is the thorn on the rosebush of God.

David is the song upon God's lips,
And Our Lady is the goblet that He sips:
And Gabriel's the breath of His command,
But Saint Michael is the sword in God's right hand.

The Ivory Tower is fair to see,
And may her walls encompass me!
But when the Devil comes with the thunder of his might,
Saint Michael, show me how to fight!

The boom and blare of the big brass band is cheering to my heart
  And I like the smell of the trampled grass and elephants and hay.
I take off my hat to the acrobat with his delicate, strong art,
  And the motley mirth of the chalk-faced clown drives all my care away.

I wish I could feel as they must feel, these players brave and fair,
  Who nonchalantly juggle death before a staring throng.
It must be fine to walk a line of silver in the air
  And to cleave a hundred feet of space with a gesture like a song.

Sir Henry Irving never knew a keener, sweeter thrill
  Than that which stirs the breast of him who turns his painted face
To the circling crowd who laugh aloud and clap hands with a will
  As a tribute to the clown who won the great wheel-barrow race.

Now, one shall work in the living rock with a mallet and a knife,
  And another shall dance on a big white horse that canters round a ring,
By another's hand shall colours stand in similitude of life;
  And the hearts of the three shall be moved by one mysterious high thing.

For the sculptor and the acrobat and the painter are the same.
  They know one hope, one fear, one pride, one sorrow and one mirth,
And they take delight in the endless fight for the fickle world's acclaim;
  For they worship art above the clouds and serve her on the earth.

But you, who can build of the stubborn rock no form of loveliness,
  Who can never mingle the radiant hues to make a wonder live,
Who can only show your little woe to the world in a rhythmic dress —
  What kind of a counterpart of you does the three-ring circus give?

Well — here in the little side-show tent to-day some people stand,
  One is a giant, one a dwarf, and one has a figured skin,
And each is scarred and seared and marred by Fate's relentless hand,
  And each one shows his grief for pay, with a sort of pride therein.

You put your sorrow into rhyme and want the world to look;
  You sing the news of your ruined hope and want the world to hear;
Their woe is pent in a canvas tent and yours in a printed book.
  O, poet of the broken heart, salute your brothers here!

My hands were stained with blood, my heart was proud and cold,
My soul is black with shame . . . but I gave Shakespeare gold.
So after aeons of flame, I may, by grace of God,
Rise up to kiss the dust that Shakespeare's feet have trod.

The fragile splendour of the level sea,
  The moon's serene and silver-veiled face,
  Make of this vessel an enchanted place
Full of white mirth and golden sorcery.
Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be
  Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace,
  And the old stars, in their unending race,
Shall heed and envy young humanity.

And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away,
  These waters blush a strange and awful red.
Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey
  Rises from decks that crash with flying lead.
And these stars smile their immemorial way
  On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead!

In alien earth, across a troubled sea,
  His body lies that was so fair and young.
  His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung;
His arm is still, that struck to make men free.
But let no cloud of lamentation be
  Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung.
  We keep the echoes of his golden tongue,
We keep the vision of his chivalry.

So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings,
  Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde.
To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings
  With psalms a soldier made to