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Denis Florence MacCarthy
This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 170 pages of information about Poems.

CHORUS OF SPIRITS

Means, dear brother, ask them not;
  Soul’s desire is means enow,
Pure content is angel’s lot,
  Thine own theatre art thou.

Gentler far than falls the snow
In the woodwalks still and low
Fell the lesson on his heart
And woke the fear lest angels part.

POET

I see your forms with deep content,
I know that ye are excellent,
  But will ye stay? 
I hear the rustle of wings,
Ye meditate what to say
Ere ye go to quit me for ever and aye.

SPIRITS

Brother, we are no phantom band;
Brother, accept this fatal hand. 
Aches thine unbelieving heart
With the fear that we must part? 
See, all we are rooted here
By one thought to one same sphere;
From thyself thou canst not flee,—­
From thyself no more can we.

POET

Suns and stars their courses keep,
But not angels of the deep: 
Day and night their turn observe,
But the day of day may swerve. 
Is there warrant that the waves
Of thought in their mysterious caves
Will heap in me their highest tide,
In me therewith beatified? 
Unsure the ebb and flood of thought,
The moon comes back,—­the Spirit not.

SPIRITS

Brother, sweeter is the Law
Than all the grace Love ever saw;
We are its suppliants.  By it, we
Draw the breath of Eternity;
Serve thou it not for daily bread,—­
Serve it for pain and fear and need. 
Love it, though it hide its light;
By love behold the sun at night. 
If the Law should thee forget,
More enamoured serve it yet;
Though it hate thee, suffer long;
Put the Spirit in the wrong;
Brother, no decrepitude
  Chills the limbs of Time;
As fleet his feet, his hands as good,
  His vision as sublime: 
On Nature’s wheels there is no rust;
Nor less on man’s enchanted dust
  Beauty and Force alight.

FRAGMENTS ON THE POET AND THE POETIC GIFT

I

There are beggars in Iran and Araby,
SAID was hungrier than all;
Hafiz said he was a fly
That came to every festival. 
He came a pilgrim to the Mosque
On trail of camel and caravan,
Knew every temple and kiosk
Out from Mecca to Ispahan;
Northward he went to the snowy hills,
At court he sat in the grave Divan. 
His music was the south-wind’s sigh,
His lamp, the maiden’s downcast eye,
And ever the spell of beauty came
And turned the drowsy world to flame. 
By lake and stream and gleaming hall
And modest copse and the forest tall,
Where’er he went, the magic guide

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