Sweet everlasting Love, daughter of God,
Whose dancing deluges the world with light,
Come down and sprinkle wild flowers on your way
And rain down moisture on our barren plains;
Enter the stony provinces of Greece
Where thousands of blaspheming tongues are loose,
And save us from their plague of babbling lies.
Come quickly, since for more than forty years,
Under Constans and Constantius, Valens, Julian,
What have we done but war on one another?
Bishops from Pontus, Media, Thessalonica,
Presbyters come from Africa and Italy,
Deacons from Paphlagonia, Crete and Syria;
Fronto the prefect of Nicopolis;
George of Illyricum and John of Trebizond
Encroaching, with Eusebian Antioch:
Flying about like beetles, meet in Councils
Eternal as the Caesars; where we all
Can now do nothing but re-write the Creed.
And now we can agree, and now it holds
Until we eat or sleep, or the wind changes,
And then we tear it up, recant it scoffingly—
Determine, and undo determinations—
Prohibit, and ignore our prohibitions—
Profit by ambiguities, form parties,
And angling in two Testaments for novelties
Maintain the edge of anger, but forget
The bread of angels, trodden into dust.
How easy with no scruples to exchange
These paper formulae! but how should we,
Who should be firm in virtue, sober, sure,
Not angry, if we are to teach, not blameable,
Walk with such policies? I should deceive
Neither myself nor God; and must offend,
If I should give an answer when men say
And laugh ‘Where is your talent? Time goes on,
But you can show no increase’; and they say
‘When will you ever speak, and make an end?
When will your light shine forth and show the way?’
My friends, why ask me when I mean to pay?
Surely the last hour will be soon enough, old age,
Grey hairs? For I am haunted night and day
By fearful thoughts, they bridle up my tongue,
And cramp me up and gnaw my bones and humble me,
So that I cannot think of others,
But only how myself can flee
The wrath that is to come—myself be free
Before I bid for others, and myself
Draw near, before I summon those afar.
Meanwhile in Asia in the very villages
Disputes are held concerning divine dogma,
The people standing by and taking sides.
In shops and squares
Ask them the price of beans, and they discuss
The Ingenerate Word of God. In Alexandria
A crop of Jezebels run up and down,
Accounting it their grief and shame
The day they do no mischief. Ballad-mongers
Philosophise on things incomprehensible.
Yet always in the wicked Arian leaven
One sees intolerable, itching love,
Although frustrated and reversed to hate.
And while they struggle vainly to be free,
And long to murder what is strange and pure,
Twisting upon themselves and tangled,
Writhing from the thing they see,
They witness in their teeth to the one Faith
That we have kept and they cannot endure:
‘Father and Son one substance’,
And being consubstantial, co-eternal;
And in that single clause, the glimmer given
Beyond all allegory, carved in marble
Or like the breath of man laid up in Heaven,
We are uplifted into life and light,
Comfort in sorrow, hope in all uncertainties,
The rising up on those interior wings—
Enthusiasm, new desires, discoveries—
New tongues for the expression of new things!…
Drenched in the silver of old olive-trees
The little bay lies empty, in a trance.
I watch the far sea bathed in pale blue light,
And on the rough sea-wall the tone of time
Comes out, and on the fundamental rock
Scored over, lights and shadows pause and pass.
And there the memory of some one face
Yet living, some transparent thought at gaze,
And looking from deep lids where it had nested
As if it were a breath, a truce, a peace,
Safeguards our happiness, that is and needs
Nothing but a deep gazing on our love.