BY THE MARGIN OF THE GREAT DEEP

    When the breath of twilight blows to flame the misty skies,
    All its vaporous sapphire, violet glow, and silver gleam,
    With their magic flood me through the gateway of the eyes;
    I am one with the twilight’s dream.

    When the trees and skies and fields are one in dusky mood,
    Every heart of man is wrapt within the mother’s breast: 
    Full of peace and sleep and dreams in the vasty quietude,
    I am one with their hearts at rest.

    From our immemorial joys of hearth and home and love
    Strayed away along the margin of the unknown tide,
    All its reach of soundless calm can thrill me far above
    Word or touch from the lips beside.

    Aye, and deep and deep and deeper let me drink and draw,
    From the olden fountain more than light or peace or dream,
    Such primeval being as o’erfills the heart with awe,
    Growing one with its silent stream.

THREE COUNSELLORS

    It was the fairy of the place,
    Moving within a little light,
    Who touched with dim and shadowy grace
    The conflict at its fever height.

    It seemed to whisper ‘Quietness,’
    Then quietly itself was gone: 
    Yet echoes of its mute caress
    Were with me as the years went on.

    It was the warrior within
    Who called ’Awake, prepare for fight: 
    Yet lose not memory in the din: 
    Make of thy gentleness thy might: 

    ’Make of thy silence words to shake
    The long-enthroned kings of earth: 
    Make of thy will the force to break
    Their towers of wantonness and mirth.’

    It was the wise all-seeing soul
    Who counselled neither war nor peace: 
    ’Only be thou thyself that goal
    In which the wars of time shall cease.’

DESIRE

    With thee a moment!  Then what dreams have play! 
    Traditions of eternal toil arise,
    Search for the high austere and lonely way
    The Spirit moves in through eternities. 
    Ah, in the soul what memories arise! 
    And with what yearning inexpressible,
    Rising from long forgetfulness I turn
    To Thee, invisible, unrumoured, still: 
    White for Thy whiteness all desires burn. 
    Ah, with what longing once again I turn!

THE PLACE OF REST

    ‘The soul is its own witness and its own refuge’

    Unto the deep the deep heart goes,
    It lays its sadness nigh the breast: 
    Only the Mighty Mother knows
    The wounds that quiver unconfessed.

    It seeks a deeper silence still;
    It folds itself around with peace,
    Where thoughts alike of good or ill
    In quietness unfostered cease.