Surely to me the world is all too drear,
To shape my sorrow to a tuneful strain,
It is enough for wearied ears to hear
The Passion-Music of a fevered brain,
Or low complainings of a heart’s pain.
My saddened soul is out of tune with time,
Nor have I care to set the crooked straight,
Or win green laurels for some pleasant rhyme,
Only with tired eyes I sit and wait,
Until the opening of the Future’s Mystic Gate.
I am so tired of all the busy throng
That chirp and chatter in the noisy street,
That I would sit alone and sing no song
But listen for the coming of Love’s feet.
Love is a pleasant messenger to greet.
O Love come close before the hateful day,
And tarry not until the night is dead,
O Love come quickly, for although one pray,
What has God ever given in thy stead
But dust and ashes for the head?
Strain, strain O longing eyes till Love is near;
O Heart be ready for his entering thee,
O Breaking Heart be free from doubt and fear,
For when Love comes he cometh gloriously,
And entering love is very fair to see.
Peace, Peace O breaking heart, Love comes apace,
And surely great delight and gladness brings,
Now look at last upon his shining face,
And listen to the flying of his wings
And the sweet voice of Love that sings.
O pale moon shining fair and clear
Between the apple-blossoms white,
That cluster round my window here,
Why does Love tarry in his flight
And not come near for my heart’s delight –
I only hear the sighing of the breeze
That makes complaint in a sweet undertune,
I only see the blossom-laden trees
Splintering the arrows of the golden moon,
That turns black night into the burnished noon.
Magdalen College, Oxford