to Francis Thompson
we would return to you dear Lord what if,
the images of all things we hoarded
as Keats said, in the realms of gold
that we might free them from the cursed
and lose them no more because, to you
we would return them all only to save them
from the hordes on earth our useless pride.
ah for they are fading anyway in this arrogant day
flowers set in amber to no avail.
the sad, curled ferns.
how may we bring to you our borrowed finery
the clues we left you in the forest that You
might find us anew
so that we can finally go home with light luggage
no longer carrying small stones in our pockets
dreading the trails that disappear without a trace.
to you all things must flee
or else lose liberty, lose the wings
we thought we had made
you sewed for us in the shade of Eden.
now under a pale and ever a paler moon
we have wept in various guises
setting the invisible looms up for
the invisible costumes
no one will buy.
through the long noons
that withered the grasses
yet, not You, the giver of dews
and rose refreshments. can Wither with the worlds.
from childhood I remember asking You
what does it mean to give you glory
who are glory and my angel whispered
even then
give the thing you love the most to Him
give it back that's all you need to do.
yet it is hard. but harder to resist the truth
all things were made by You, not us
we only borrowed the moon and stars
we even borrowed love
and what can be said of beauty
except it's the hardest to lose and yet we
lose it everyday disappearing into you
whole fields of flowers and those that we have loved.
dropping off suddenly
the edge of continents, all our fears
dissolving through the years.
we ask of you take all our verses too
and winnow them in the Winds.
mary angela douglas 22 july 2018
we would return to you dear Lord what if,
the images of all things we hoarded
as Keats said, in the realms of gold
that we might free them from the cursed
and lose them no more because, to you
we would return them all only to save them
from the hordes on earth our useless pride.
ah for they are fading anyway in this arrogant day
flowers set in amber to no avail.
the sad, curled ferns.
how may we bring to you our borrowed finery
the clues we left you in the forest that You
might find us anew
so that we can finally go home with light luggage
no longer carrying small stones in our pockets
dreading the trails that disappear without a trace.
to you all things must flee
or else lose liberty, lose the wings
we thought we had made
you sewed for us in the shade of Eden.
now under a pale and ever a paler moon
we have wept in various guises
setting the invisible looms up for
the invisible costumes
no one will buy.
through the long noons
that withered the grasses
yet, not You, the giver of dews
and rose refreshments. can Wither with the worlds.
from childhood I remember asking You
what does it mean to give you glory
who are glory and my angel whispered
even then
give the thing you love the most to Him
give it back that's all you need to do.
yet it is hard. but harder to resist the truth
all things were made by You, not us
we only borrowed the moon and stars
we even borrowed love
and what can be said of beauty
except it's the hardest to lose and yet we
lose it everyday disappearing into you
whole fields of flowers and those that we have loved.
dropping off suddenly
the edge of continents, all our fears
dissolving through the years.
we ask of you take all our verses too
and winnow them in the Winds.
mary angela douglas 22 july 2018
