PROSE POEMS
1. HEAVEN
“Take me, then,” he said to the angel, “upon this great journey to Heaven.”
The angel touched his eyelids.
“Where, then, is Hell?” asked the man.
The spirit pointed out a bored-looking man quite near the throne.
“But he is in Heaven,” protested the mortal.
“Even so, but he does not know it,” replied the angel.
2. THE MOTH
“It is the brightness of God!” exclaimed the moth, beholding the candle.
“But it will scorch you worse than Hell’s fire,” warned a friendly insect.
“What matter that?” shouted the moth. “It is the brightness of God!”
Then it flew into the flame and was shrivelled.
3. THE ARTIST
“I am tired of failing!” said the Artist, and he ripped up the picture with his penknife.
“Now he will remember my love!” thought the woman, and she smiled. But when the Artist saw the smile on her face, he took his brushes and made a picture of it, and the love of the woman was forgotten.
4. THE WINDOW GLASS
Against the dark glass shone like a flower the mouth of his beloved. But in vain he pressed lips of fire upon the panes—in vain!
“Then, since Love may not melt,” cried he, “shatter, O Death!”
God broke the window with His fist.
5. IN THE FIELD OF TIME
In the field of Time, at the end of the path of daisies, grow flaming poppies, taking the eye more readily than the flowers of gold and white.
But a man, looking at some he had plucked to wear, discovered (formed by the inside shape and hue of the petals) a black cross at the bottom of every scarlet cup, and cast them from him.
6. BLUE GRASS
“Is not this the mountain of blue grass?” asked the stranger. “Why is the grass as green as in our common meadows?”
“It was never any other colour,” said the native.
“It looked blue from afar,” protested the traveller, “and I have journeyed a long and difficult way to find it.”
“You had better have stayed at home,” answered the native.
“No,” returned the stranger, with a sad smile, “I had better have come, but now I will go home. The grass there has become blue.”
7. THE POET
“What is that lovely thing you have in your heart? Why do you not sing of it?” asked the Muse.
“I have not yet lost it,” answered the Poet.
8. SORROW
The lean dagger had gone into the Poet’s heart.
Shuddering, he plucked it free, lest he should die. And then—by magic—it became in his hand a shining sword fit to smite down the sorrow of the world.
9. THE MIRACLE
Why has the Earth taken on a new significance?
Why is the smoking mist now white music, and the world’s architecture more wonderful than a fine cathedral?
It is something that has happened in your heart.
Perhaps (I do not know) you have learnt to hate yourself or to love a fellow-being.
10. FAITH
Why am I so many men?
It is because you have not Faith.
What is Faith?
Faith is a fire.
But how does a man come by it?
Perhaps God gives it him.
11. TIME—THE HORSE
Whither does Time trot us? And is moonlight brightening the harness buckles as when children play beneath the rugs, guessing “Where are we?” and father drives home—home—beneath the stars?
12. THE REBUILDING OF REALITY
“Behold the sunshine, the green earth, the shining sea!” shouted my Eyes.
Said Heart: “Oh, I cannot; the realities I knew are gone! Death’s shadow is upon all this.”
“Well, it is yours to create realities anew,” smiled Death. “Hitherto (like the rest) you seem to have done it badly.”
13. THE TOKEN
Because of you I am insatiably curious about death.
Because of Him who imagined and made you I am able tranquilly to abide the time.
Shrivelled in His glory: scorched by His humour: because He has imagined and made you, I trust and am sure.
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