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Three by Dowson II

Three poems by Ernest Dowson.

Nuns of the Perpetual Adoration

Calm, sad, secure; behind high convent walls,
   These watch the sacred lamp, these watch and pray:
And it is one with them when evening falls,
   And one with them the cold return of day.

These heed not time; their nights and days they make
   Into a long, returning rosary,
Whereon their lives are threaded for Christ's sake;
   Meekness and vigilance and chastity.

A vowed patrol, in silent companies,
   Life-long they keep before the living Christ.
In the dim church, their prayers and penances
   Are fragrant incense to the Sacrificed.

Outside, the world is wild and passionate;
   Man's weary laughter and his sick despair
Entreat at their impenetrable gate:
   They heed no voices in their dream of prayer.

They saw the glory of the world displayed;
   They saw the bitter of it, and the sweet;
They knew the roses of the world should fade,
   And be trod under by the hurrying feet.

Therefore they rather put away desire,
   And crossed their hands and came to sanctuary
And veiled their heads and put on coarse attire:
   Because their comeliness was vanity.

And there they rest; they have serene insight
   Of the illuminating dawn to be:
Mary's sweet Star dispels for them the night,
   The proper darkness of humanity.

Calm, sad, secure; with faces worn and mild:
   Surely their choice of vigil is the best?
Yea! for our roses fade, the world is wild;
   But there, beside the altar, there, is rest.

(from "Verses")

Benedictio Domini

Without, the sullen noises of the street!
   The voice of London, inarticulate,
Hoarse and blaspheming, surges in to meet
   The silent blessing of the Immaculate.

Dark is the church, and dim the worshippers,
   Hushed with bowed heads as though by some old spell,
While through the incense-laden air there stirs
   The admonition of a silver bell.

Dark is the church, save where the altar stands,
   Dressed like a bride, illustrious with light,
Where one old priest exalts with tremulous hands
   The one true solace of man's fallen plight.

Strange silence here; without, the sounding street
   Heralds the world's swift passage to the fire;
O Benediction, perfect and complete!
   When shall men cease to suffer and desire?

(from "Verses")

Carthusians

Through what long heaviness, assayed in what strange fire,
   Have these white monks been brought into the way of peace,
Despising the world's wisdom and the world's desire,
   Which from the body of this death bring no release?

Within their austere walls no voices penetrate;
   A sacred silence only, as of death, obtains;
Nothing finds entry here of loud or passionate;
   This quiet is the exceeding profit of their pain:

From many lands they came, in divers fiery ways;
   Each knew at last the vanity of earthly joys;
And one was crowned with thorns, and one was crowned with bays,
   And each was tired at last of the world's foolish noise.

It was not theirs with Dominic to preach God's holy wrath,
   They were too stern to bear sweet Francis' gentle sway;
Theirs was a higher calling and a steeper path,
   To dwell alone with Christ, to meditate and pray.

A cloistered company, they are companionless,
   None knoweth here the secret of his brother's heart:
They are but come together for more loneliness,
   Whose bond is solitude and silence all their part.

O beatific life! Who is there shall gainsay,
   Your great refusal's victory, your little loss,
Deserting vanity for the more perfect way,
   The sweeter service of the most dolorous Cross.

Ye shall prevail at last! Surely ye shall prevail!
   Your silence and austerity shall win at last:
Desire and mirth, the world's ephemeral lights shall fail,
   The sweet star of your queen is never overcast.

We fling up flowers and laugh, we laugh across the wine;
   With wine we dull our souls and careful strains of art;
Our cups are polished skulls round which the roses twine:
   None dares to look at Death who leers and lurks apart.

Move on, white company, whom that has not sufficed!
   Our viols cease, our wine is death, our roses fail:
Pray for our heedlessness, O dwellers with the Christ!
   Though the world fall apart, surely ye shall prevail.

(from "Decorations")

The Poems of Ernest Dowson (1900), pp. 5f, 21, 124ff. The book is on line here.

See also Three by Dowson: Three poems by Ernest Dowson.

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Sun. 05/02/04 06:53:18 AM
Categorized as Literary & Religious & Sunday Poetry Series.

   
         
         

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