for the English poets, for holy poetry
I dreamed of England returned to herself
and the bitter knights' reconciliations;
Albion, coming clear in the mists
and the cherry carol branching
and ah, the Dream of the Rood
in jeweled bloom.
I will leap up to God my God
and see the angels rustling in the trees
where once the poet William Blake
fell to his knees and understood
that poetry is certain good
illuminating praise.
the sea of faith is verging in the dark
the ghost poet soldiers mark their place
and turn again homeward in His grace
to the place they loved
the lanes all blossom filled
the lovely strand...
and all their words
are like a field revued
renewed by High Command
with madrigals strewn..
and not excised
la vita nuova, enterprise
from which we dare not turn our eyea
in this high noon in this high noon
where the ancient wounds
burst into birdsong, flower
into the bridal tunes
irrevocably-seeking the Falconer and his gyre
where all had slept as the dew on the briar
forgetting Beauty, neglecting the heart's communion
mary angela douglas 17 june 2017;28 august 2022
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