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Thy face is far from this our war-
Our call and counter-cry.

I shall not find Thee quick and kind,
Nor know Thee till I die.

Enough for me in dreams to see

And touch Thy garments' hem— Thy feet have trod so near to God I may not follow them.

Through wantonness if men profess
They weary of Thy parts,
E'en let them die at blasphemy

And perish with their arts:
But we that love-but we that prove
Thine excellence august,

While we adore, discover more
Thee perfect, wise, and just.

Since spoken word Man's spirit stirred Beyond his belly-need,

What is is Thine of fair design

In thought and craft and deed:

Each stroke aright of toil and fight
That was and that shall be,

And hope too high wherefore we die,
Has birth and worth in Thee.

Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee
To gild his dross thereby,

And knowledge sure that he endure
A child until he die;

For to make plain that man's disdain

Is but new Beauty's birth,

For to possess in loneliness

The joy of all the earth.

As Thou didst teach all lovers speech,

And Life her mystery,

So shalt thou rule by every school

Till Love and Longing die,

Who wast or yet the lights were met,

A whisper in the Void,

Who shalt be sung through planets young When this is clean destroyed.

Beyond the bounds our staring rounds

Across the pressing dark

The children wise of outer skies

Look hitherward and mark

A light that shifts, a glare that drifts,
Rekindling thus and thus,

Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne
Strange tales to them of us.

Time hath no tide but must abide

The servant of Thy will

Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme
The ranging stars stand still :
Regent of spheres that hold our fears,
Our hopes invisible,

Oh, 'twas certes, at Thy decrees

We fashioned Heaven and Hell!

Pure Wisdom hath no certain path
That lacks Thy morning-eyne;
And captains bold by Thee controlled
Most like to Gods design.

Thou art the Voice to kingly boys
To lift them through the fight,
And Comfortress of Unsuccess
To give the Dead good-night-

A veil to draw twixt God His law
And man's infirmity,

A shadow kind to dumb and blind
The shambles where we die-

A sum to trick th' arithmetic,

Too base, of leaguing odds,

The spur of Trust, the curb of Lust,
Thou handmaid of the Gods!

O Charity, all patiently

Abiding wrack and scaith!

O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats,

Yet drops no jot of faith!

Devil and brute Thou dost transmute
To higher, lordlier show,

Who art in sooth that utter Truth
The careless angels know!

Thy face is far from this our war-
Our call and counter-cry.

I may not find Thee breathed and kind,
Nor know Thee till I die.

Yet may I look with heart unshook
On blow brought home or missed,

Yet may I hear with equal ear
The clarions down the list-
Yet set my lance above mischance,
And ride the barriere,-

Oh, hit or miss, how little 'tis,

My Lady is not there!

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