THE FIRES OF GOD

Time gathers to my name; Along the ways wheredown my feet have passed I see the years with little triumph crowned, Exulting not for perils dared, downcast And weary-eyed and desolate for shame Of having been unstirred of all the sound Of the deep music of the men that move Through the world’s days in suffering and love.

Poor barren years that brooded over-much On your own burden, pale and stricken years— Go down to your oblivion, we part With no reproach or ceremonial tears. Henceforth my hands are lifted to the touch Of hands that labour with me, and my heart Hereafter to the world’s heart shall be set And its own pain forget. Time gathers to my name— Days dead are dark; the days to be, a flame Of wonder and of promise, and great cries Of travelling people reach me—I must rise.