Joseph Mary Plunkett: I See His Blood Upon the Rose

I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.

[Poems, ed. Geraldine Plunkett, p. 50.]

(See The Poems of Joseph Mary Plunkett.)

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Fri. 04/18/03 08:14:33 AM
Categorized as Literary & Religious.

C. S. Lewis: Love's as Warm as Tears

Love's as warm as tears,
    Love is tears:
Pressure within the brain,
Tension at the throat,
Deluge, weeks of rain,
Haystacks afloat,
Featureless seas between
Hedges, where once was green.

Love's as fierce as fire,
    Love is fire:
All sorts—infernal heat
Clinkered with greed and pride,
Lyric desire, sharp-sweet,
Laughing, even when denied,
And that empyreal flame
Whence all loves came.

Love's as fresh as spring,
    Love is spring:
Bird-song hung in the air,
Cool smells in a wood,
Whispering "Dare! Dare!"
To sap, to blood,
Telling "Ease, safety, rest,
Are good; not best."

Love's as hard as nails,
    Love is nails:
Blunt, thick, hammered through
The medial nerves of One
Who, having made us, knew
The thing He had done,
Seeing (with all that is)
Our cross, and His.

[Poems, ed. Walter Hooper, pp. 123f.]

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Fri. 04/18/03 08:09:04 AM
Categorized as Literary & Religious.

John Donne: Holy Sonnets XIII

What if this present were the worlds last night?
Marke in my heart, O Soule, where thou dost dwell,
The picture of Christ crucified, and tell
Whether that countenance can thee affright,
Teares in his eyes quench the amasing light,
Blood fills his frownes, which from his pierc'd head fell.
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,
Which pray'd forgivenesse for his foes fierce spight?
No, no; but as in my idolatrie
I said to all my profane mistresses,
Beauty, of pitty, foulnesse onely is
A signe of rigour: so I say to thee,
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assign'd,
This beauteous forme assumes a pitious minde.

[The Complete English Poems, ed. C. A. Patrides, pp. 442ff.]

(See also modernized.)

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Fri. 04/18/03 08:02:31 AM
Categorized as Literary & Religious.