>*\ 
 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 7^ A**, /<?//£
 
 The Golden Heresy.
 
 The Golden Heresy 
 
 BY 
 
 MAX PLOWMAN 
 
 " £A£o blazoned banner we unfold — 
 One charge alone we give to youth. 
 
 Against the sceptred myth to hold 
 'Che golden heresy of *Uruth." 
 
 A.E. 
 
 48, FITZROY STREET, 
 
 LONDON, W. 
 
 1914.
 
 Vim 
 
 TO 
 
 M. C. 
 
 AND 
 
 D. L. S.
 
 NOTE. 
 
 The Author thanks the Editors of the Jlcademy 
 
 and the 'Pall SKCall Qazette for permission to 
 
 reprint two of the shorter poems.
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR : 
 
 FIRST POEMS. 
 
 Published by 
 
 SIDGWICK AND JACKSON, LTD. 
 
 1913.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 Labourer's Joy .... 
 
 11 
 
 " Victima Amoris . 
 
 12 
 
 The Crazy Lad .... 
 
 14 
 
 The Undertakers .... 
 
 17 
 
 The Dawn of Day .... 
 
 19 
 
 The Banquet .... 
 
 22 
 
 The Crimson Poppies 
 
 25 
 
 The Bather .... 
 
 26 
 
 A Marriage Song .... 
 
 28 
 
 " Mandatum Novum "... 
 
 32 
 
 Her Beauty .... 
 
 33 
 
 ' Take us the foxes, the little foxes, that spoil 
 
 
 the vines ' 
 
 34 
 
 The Philosophy of it 
 
 35 
 
 Mary and Martha .... 
 
 36
 
 Labourer's Joy. 
 
 Beyond your comfortable bounds 
 The hard, unbroken earth I plough ; 
 
 I plough in hope, and hear the sounds 
 Of happy reapers who shall bow 
 
 With sickles 'neath the corn head-high, 
 And wonder why men waited long 
 
 Content with that poor withering rye 
 Sown on the wearied earth you throng. 
 
 I, all unused to toil, will plough 
 
 From dawn to dusk the winter through 
 
 For if I do not labour now 
 
 A starving race will turn to you 
 
 And clamour for the bread that fails 
 E'en now your bodies to sustain — 
 
 And bloody are the fearful tales 
 Of men who cry for bread in vain. 
 
 The earth is hard. I am not strong. 
 
 Afar I hear your mocking laughter ; 
 But there is joy the whole day long 
 
 In toil for those who shall come after. 
 
 1 1
 
 Victima Amoris." 
 
 What is this wild obsessive power 
 That cannot give but it give all ? 
 
 This child full-grown within an hour : 
 This love that clasps as in a thrall 
 
 This winter turned to summer's heat : 
 This frenzied longing in the night : 
 
 This swift-upspnnging earless wheat : 
 This burning fire devoid of light ? 
 
 O who shall grapple with the love 
 That never knew a mortal youth, 
 
 But like a rocket soared above 
 
 In one wild flight to capture truth ? 
 
 O who to sudden power was born ? 
 
 Where is the art that needs no skill ? 
 How slowly lift the lids of morn ! 
 
 How slow comes twilight o'er the hill ! 
 
 And Nature rich in skill and care 
 To ripeness brings her choicest fruit 
 
 Slowly, with signs which men aware 
 
 Heed, though no voice the news may bruit. 
 
 12
 
 But this — this power of powers grows on 
 Hidden in shame, the sport of jest, 
 
 By heedless parents trodden upon, 
 Or by religious frowns opprest ; 
 
 Till wild for freedom up it springs 
 With tentacles where arms should be, 
 
 Which in distraction blind it flings 
 Around the pinions of the free. 
 
 How fearfully the ivy grips, 
 
 With iron hand in downy glove ! 
 
 But O the kiss of one whose lips 
 Know no intelligence in love ! 
 
 *3
 
 The Crazy Lad. 
 
 " // is not the will of your Father which is in heaven that 
 one of these little ones should perish. 
 
 "Now where you going ? Speak, young man ! 
 
 They crowd around the crazy lad. 
 " I cannot tell ; but where she went 
 
 I follow, and it makes me glad. 
 
 " D'you see her footsteps in the sand ? 
 
 Look there ! and there ! and there again ! 
 And O, to think she went this way . . . ! 
 
 Does't give you joy, or pain ? 
 
 11 Sometimes I feel all joy : my heart 
 Is like the kind air round the earth ; 
 
 It has its arms right round the world 
 And sings for all its worth. 
 
 " But sometimes nothing stays with me, 
 And then I seem a dripping well : 
 
 All dripping — dripping. O, it hurts 
 Too much to ever tell." 
 
 14
 
 44 The lad's gone soft," his father said, 
 44 As soft as kneaded dough." 
 
 44 O come, my dearie — come with me F 
 And don't 'e take on so," 
 
 His mother cried, putting her hands 
 Upon his face, then round his head. 
 
 But his father whispered to himself, 
 44 I'd rather he was dead." 
 
 She looked at him, and smiled at him ; 
 
 44 See lad ! Tide's come and gone 
 Since ere a living soul has trod 
 
 The sand ; and steps ? there's none ! ' 
 
 Then suddenly there came a look 
 Of shining wonder on his face. 
 
 They all stood still, as though they saw 
 An angel in his place. 
 
 And then he cried, 44 O dearie Dear ! 
 
 Why do you run away ? 
 I only want to kiss your hands ; 
 
 Do let me kiss them once to-day. 
 
 44 'Twill make me friends with God again. 
 Yes, I am friendly with Him now ; 
 
 For now you smile and look at me, 
 And make a courtsey while I bow. 
 
 l 5
 
 " Dear Heart, do stay — do stay awhile, 
 
 I am so tired with walking. 
 I'll never kiss your hands again, 
 
 Nor tire you with my talking. 
 
 " O lovely, lovely are your eyes ! 
 
 Yet when the sun comes streaming through 
 Your wavy hair, like that, they look 
 
 Too dark and far away, for you. 
 
 " Come nearer, Love. Only a step. 
 
 There ! Now I almost see your soul. 
 'Tis coming to me gradually. 
 
 Dear, Dear, do send it whole ! 
 
 '" O, O ! You've turned away again ! " — 
 He shut his tranced eyes and fell. 
 
 His father said, " Well, here's a job. 
 Undo his collar, Nell. 
 
 " The 'sylum sure he'll have to go. 
 
 The lad was allers dazed 
 Either with brats or gals, and now 
 
 He's done it fair. He's crazed. 
 
 *' Look, Bob, you take his feet. There, gal, 
 
 Do stop that howling row. 
 What's done's the will o' God. To that 
 
 We'd best look quick and bow." 
 
 16
 
 The Undertakers. 
 
 I heard a cry at midnight loud, 
 ' O do not, do not make my shroud I 
 I see bright joys on every hand, 
 I do not seek the better land." 
 
 And I beheld a living maid 
 
 By both her parents firmly laid 
 
 Within a coffin, while a nun 
 
 Said many times, " Thy will be done." 
 
 I saw a fool go grinning by, 
 Who said, " The Cross is ever nigh. 
 The fruit of sin in this we see ; 
 Now who's for saints and jollity ? " 
 
 And then I saw an angel burst 
 That hideous coffin lid accurst. 
 He said, " Be fruitful and enjoy 
 The love of some bright happy boy." 
 
 Like birch leaves shimmering 'neath the moon, 
 Like silvery waves at brightest noon, 
 Like biue-bells on a windy day, 
 The merry maiden danced away. 
 
 17
 
 The nun said, " Save us, Lord, from sin. 
 How fair the coffin she was in ! 
 The fool said, " Bless my soul ! Alack ! 
 No matter ; white's the same as black." 
 
 18
 
 The Dawn of Day. 
 
 Angels and devils saw I once 
 
 Fighting in heaven. 
 The devils were innumerable, 
 
 The angels, seven. 
 
 Seven shafts of light they held 
 
 That pierced the sky ; 
 But the massed army rattled shields, 
 
 Thundering horribly. 
 
 " We hold all heaven," they yelled, 
 
 44 Break up their darts ; 
 Shall immemorial darkness yield 
 
 To milky hearts ? 
 
 *' Before Time was we were, 
 
 God is less old. 
 Hie you pale-hvered ones 
 
 Back to your fold ! 
 
 11 You cry ' Love's Light ! ' Begone ! 
 
 The moon is here. 
 Her gentle, decorous ways 
 
 To us are dear. 
 
 19
 
 " She heats no fevered blood, 
 
 She comes and goes. 
 She loves the lily well, 
 
 But hates the rose. 
 
 1 And ye would have the rose 
 
 Grow twice as red, 
 Till all the earth became 
 One flower bed : 
 
 " A wilderness of flowers 
 
 Praising your God : 
 Aye, even lascivious blooms 
 
 On Aaron's rod. 
 
 " While we would have the earth 
 
 As clean as she ; 
 White as the shroud of death, 
 
 From sin as free." 
 
 But the seven shafts were loosed, 
 They cleft night's hosts, 
 
 And gibbering devils fled 
 With pale moon ghosts, 
 
 Crying, " Alack ! Alack ! 
 
 Lo ! Love is free. 
 Now will the earth bring forth 
 
 Its infamy." 
 
 20
 
 Then robed in dazzling gold 
 
 The Lord of Love 
 Lifted his kingly head 
 
 Earth's rim above ; 
 
 And swift the rosy earth 
 
 Was like a bride 
 Waiting her Lord of Life, 
 
 With arms stretched wide. 
 
 21
 
 The Banquet. 
 
 1 Wherefore these lighted candles, tables decked 
 With nodding flowers and streaming eglantine : 
 This sumptuous silver, curious glass outlaid, 
 Meats, wine, and bounteous delicacies displayed 
 On every side ? " 
 And he replied, 
 " I now expect 
 A friend of mine." 
 
 Thus do we entertain a welcome guest, 
 
 And exercise our wits that he may be 
 
 Drawn to enjoy our hospitality. 
 
 We note his wishes, give attentive ear 
 
 To all he saith, 
 
 And count no cost too dear 
 
 If but our best 
 
 Delight him whom his host thus honoureth. 
 
 But when we entertain the Guest of guests 
 
 What barbarous manners do we show our lord ! 
 
 " Pay heed to my behests ; 
 
 This is my board," 
 
 There are who say. 
 
 They cry, " This is my way. 
 
 Since we must eat together, let it be 
 
 In haste, in darkness and in secrecy." 
 
 22
 
 They draw the curtain : dudgeoned silence keep, 
 Till, heedless of their guest, they fall asleep ; 
 Waking to wonder why whate'er they spread 
 For gentle Love, at dawn, looks untasted. 
 
 Others with side-long, shameful looks invite, 
 
 Crying, " Come. It is night. 
 
 My hunger urges ; surely thine is great. 
 
 More often would I ask thee, but I fear 
 
 To lose my heavenly state. 
 
 Now thou art here 
 
 Let's eat, and in a trice. 
 
 Ere the cock-crow I may deny thee thrice.'' 
 
 But most an open invitation give : 
 
 " That's where I live. 
 
 We dine at eight, 
 
 And for a friend that's late 
 
 We never wait." 
 
 O Heavenly Guest ! Not thus would I invite thee. 
 
 If I am mean and poor, 
 
 Thy sovereignty shall all my powers constrain 
 
 To labour so that I may entertain 
 
 Thee I adore 
 
 At all times with what things soe'er delight thee. 
 
 Sweet Order shall the table set, 
 
 And Happiness pour out the wine, 
 
 2 3
 
 Fond Ignorance and shamed Regret 
 Shall have no place with thine, 
 Unfeigned Joy shall sing to us 
 His song, controlled and clear, 
 And glorious Ardour bring to us 
 The mirth which doth endear. 
 
 Then come, great lord ! 
 
 Honour my humble board, 
 
 For without thee, 
 
 Feasts are but feasts, and banquets, gluttony. 
 
 24
 
 The Crimson Poppies. 
 
 When we went out to take the air, 
 My dearie love, my heart's delight 
 
 Had crimson poppies in her hair, 
 But O, her cheeks were white. 
 
 We watched the sunset doff his crown, 
 The silver moon shine overhead ; 
 
 Then I looked up, and she looked down, 
 And ne'er a word we said. 
 
 And then it seemed a thousand years ; 
 
 And then I said, " It's fair and mild," 
 And looking down I saw my dear's 
 
 Blue eyes, and O, they smiled. 
 
 We sat as still as still could be 
 
 And smiled till love was clean confessed, 
 And then I drew her close to me 
 
 And hid her in my breast. 
 
 When we went out, my heart's delight 
 Had crimson poppies in her hair ; 
 
 When we went in, her cheeks so white 
 Had lovely poppies there. 
 
 25
 
 The Bather. 
 
 Bathe where the water gushes from the spring ; 
 
 Yea, all encumbering garments lay aside, 
 And naked in the sunlight leap and sing : 
 
 Poise, and then deep into the water glide. 
 
 O graceful swimmer, thou hast all my praise ; 
 
 Thou dost not gasp upon the shallow verge, 
 Nor, in a frenzy, strike a thousand ways, 
 
 Fearing the head once dipped will ne'er emerge. 
 
 Now deep thou divest out of sight : anon 
 Thy laughing limbs upon the surface splash. 
 
 Now seemest thou to ride as doth a swan, 
 Now like a fish thou canst the water thrash. 
 
 Aye, gentle swimmer, yet if thou shouldst cease 
 From loving combat ; shouldst thou bid the tide 
 
 To buoy thee up in an indulgent ease : 
 Sustain thee, void of energy, in pride ; 
 
 Then corpse-like on the surface thou must float, 
 Or swifter than the unskilled swimmer drown. 
 
 The hog in water madly rends his throat, 
 
 Water gives smile for smile, and frown for frown.
 
 What radiant health is thine, O splendid form ! 
 
 Fair son of Aphrodite, child of mirth ! 
 And O, around thee, what a chattering swarm 
 
 Of shivering waders, swimmers of no worth. 
 
 This water, that to thee is fount and life, 
 
 Delight, renewal, joy and liberty : 
 To them is furtive lure and loathed strife, 
 
 That finds and leaves them neither bond nor free. 
 
 27
 
 A Marriage Song. 
 
 Let in the dawn, 
 
 Draw wide the curtain now, 
 
 See, like a trembling fawn, 
 
 The pallid moon before day's archer flies. 
 
 O Love, before this beauty let us bow ; 
 
 Such adoration best befits 
 
 The souls that love together knits ; 
 
 Then let us like dew-spangled buds arise 
 
 And with the helpful hours, unfold our enterprise. 
 
 And what this is, 
 
 Content are we to know 
 
 Souls unordained by bliss 
 
 Would mock, as aught they ne'er may comprehend, 
 
 And such as to their loveless labours go 
 
 Like stubborn mules that need a goad 
 
 To make them bear the unwilling load, 
 
 Must think most foolishly our day we spend, 
 
 Who ask no earthly prize, nor seek material end. 
 
 28
 
 But O, my Dear, 
 
 This day — this happy day, 
 
 Life's sunrise doth appear, 
 
 And we, beams of his still unwearied might, 
 
 Go forth to warm all quick responsive clay ; 
 
 For at the welling fount of joy 
 
 We drank of love that will not cloy 
 
 And found the pleasures use puts not to flight 
 
 Hid in love's radiant sanctuary of delight. 
 
 Until this day 
 
 We were but fitful gleams 
 
 That flash and pass away : 
 
 Young fledglings, half mistrustful of their wings : 
 
 Poets that babble only of their dreams : 
 
 Poor way-worn pilgrims that repine 
 
 The journey to their wished-for shrine ; 
 
 We knew not that love's dear fruition brings 
 
 A richer joy than seed-time's best imaginings. 
 
 What heavenly sign 
 
 Has graced our marriage feast ! 
 
 Dull water turned to wine ! 
 
 The muddy vesture changed to glistering gold ! 
 
 Giving all our store, we find our store increased, 
 
 Until the youngest-hearted child 
 
 Must wonder if we have beguiled 
 
 The native innocence that makes him bold 
 
 To bring the moon and stars into his fancy's fold. 
 
 29
 
 Look how the sun 
 
 Doth woo the waiting earth ! 
 
 He does not fondly run 
 
 Seeking meridian glory ere she wake ; 
 
 But gilding e'en the shameful clouds with mirth, 
 
 He slowly gains her admiration 
 
 Until he reach love's highest station, 
 
 When all her comeliness for his dear sake 
 
 She will unveil, that in his arms he may her take. 
 
 So didst thou lie. — 
 
 Nay, wherefore should I tell 
 
 What thy love-laden eye 
 
 Reveals and hides within its wistful gaze ? 
 
 O beauteous earth ! O still-unsounded well ! 
 
 Within whose depths truth clearer grows 
 
 To him that ever deeper goes : 
 
 Who dost not tire of summer's longest days, 
 
 Nor shield thy fertile dew from noontide's fiercest rays 
 
 Thou art the key. 
 
 In thee, O Love, I find 
 
 Life's perfect liberty. — 
 
 Nor shall it be that we like misers hoard 
 
 The gift that frees — that can alone us bind ; 
 
 Nay rather will we ever shower 
 
 Our richest joy, our fairest dower 
 
 On love- awaiting souls, since thus a cord 
 
 Encircling the wide earth, is bound by love, our lord. 
 
 3°
 
 For, as a stream 
 
 Embowered with arching trees, 
 
 Lapt in a heavy dream, 
 
 With sluggish pace a languid journey makes, 
 
 Anon in bursting foam its beauty frees 
 
 As down the waterfall it flows, 
 
 Where an unfading rainbow glows ; 
 
 So human life to joy and splendour breaks 
 
 When love, even as this dawn, to its own glory wakes. 
 
 3 1
 
 " Mandatum Novum.' 
 
 Wean your love, O wean your love ! 
 
 Teach him to run alone ; 
 Or you will find your sucking dove 
 
 Into a vulture grown. 
 
 32
 
 Her Beauty. 
 
 I heard them say, " Her hands are hard as stone," 
 
 And I remembered how she laid for me 
 
 The road to heaven. They said, " Her hair is grey." 
 
 Then I remembered how she once had thrown 
 
 Long plaited strands, like cables, into the sea 
 
 I battled in — the salt sea of dismay. 
 
 They said, " Her beauty's past." And then I wept, 
 
 That these, who should have been in love adept, 
 
 Against my fount of beauty should blaspheme, 
 
 And hearing a new music, miss the theme. 
 
 33
 
 " Take us the Foxes, the little Foxes, that spoil 
 
 the Vines" 
 
 Our little selves, 
 
 Those bitter enemies of You and /, 
 
 Oft mask our love and simple truth put by ; 
 
 They chafe and fret the surface of our pool 
 
 Till Love's sweet face appear a mocking fool ; 
 
 In peacock pride they hide our forms divine, 
 
 And clumsily make water of our wine ; 
 
 They buoy us up when we would know the deep, 
 
 And with mere words they lull our souls to sleep : 
 
 Give us our dross, but our pure metal steal : 
 
 Show what is not, but what most is, conceal. 
 
 my Beloved, look in thy deep heart ; 
 
 1 will in mine, and know thee as thou art. 
 
 34
 
 The Philosophy of it. 
 
 Where most are muddy, she is clear ; 
 So, like a naturalist, will I ever study 
 The bright, still depths that are my very Dear. 
 
 Where most are faltering, she is strong ; 
 
 So Love, our pilot, keeps his course unaltering, 
 
 Nor fears the sudden hurricane of wrong. 
 
 Where most are blind, she sees afar ; 
 
 So need I never circumscribe my mind, 
 
 Nor speak of ports to one who knows her star. 
 
 Where most are dying, there she ever lives. 
 Thus always on her self my heart relying, 
 I give to her the gift she always gives. 
 
 " Rock-basins, fringed with corallines, filled with still water almost as pellucid 
 as the upper air itself, thronged with sensitive forms of life." 
 
 Edmund Qosse. 
 
 35
 
 Mary and Martha. 
 
 Mary Jesus is coming ! 
 
 Martha Then we shall do well 
 
 Properly to prepare the disused room 
 Which, though it long has lain in idleness, 
 I always said we needed. 
 
 Mary Oh Martha, do you think he'll stay the night ? 
 Lazarus is bringing him, and he loves Lazarus 
 Better than you or me. Do, Martha, once, 
 Just once persuade our brother to invite him. 
 
 Martha Mary, you know how very poor we are : 
 
 You know there's not a place where he could sleep: 
 You know .... 
 
 Mary Could he not have my room ? 
 
 Oh Martha, think. All my remaining life 
 The couch, the lamp, the very walls would be 
 Fragrant of him ; my little sparing room 
 Would henceforth glow a temple of delight 
 Where I could easier pray for him and urge 
 The heart of God to send the world its joy, 
 And crown his glorious work with that success 
 He seems so much to doubt. 
 
 3.6
 
 Martha Child, do you think I love him less than you 
 Because I urge the impossibility 
 Of more than merest entertainment here ? 
 What hospitality can we afford 
 Who owe for corn and wine, and the poll tax, 
 Which still unpaid when Sabbath comes again 
 Finds us as homeless as the Lord himself ? 
 
 Mary Well, we could sell the sheep, and there's that silk 
 Robe I have never worn. I'd love to sell it, 
 Though 1 should go in rags for a whole year, 
 If only I could feel he really came 
 And shone in our dark house like a bright star 
 One whole night long. 
 
 Martha Two hours perhaps : two hours at the very most, 
 More than would otherwise be given to us, 
 Should we enjoy his honoured company. 
 Or think you he is profligate with time, 
 Even as you, and would stay sitting here 
 The whole night long to talk with a pair of girls 
 When there are crowds to hang upon his words 
 When daylight comes ? 
 
 Mary Would it be naught to you he should sleep here ? 
 
 Martha I know not what you mean. Surely if we sleep, 
 We sleep, and little matters it to us 
 Whether a beggar or a prophet rest 
 Neath the same roof. 
 
 37
 
 Mary I think it matters much. ... I don't know why. 
 
 Martha Nor I, nor any one. Mary, let's see 
 We are not foolish in our love for him. 
 It ill becomes those who would do him honour 
 To proffer him the love that dotes and weeps, 
 That treads upon his garments when he walks, 
 Looks for his gaze, and moons the hours away 
 When he is absent. His gentle mother — 
 Have you not heard? — early gave him such love; 
 And what said he of it ? " Knowest thou not 
 That I must be about my Father's business ? 
 If to his mother he should use such words 
 Of clear rebuke, what would he say to us ? 
 Nay, Mary, we must serve, and win his heart 
 To us by careful furtherance of his ends ; 
 For every prophet of the most high God 
 Loves first his work, then afterward all those 
 Who love that work as the very flower of himself. 
 
 Mary I know not how he loves, I only know 
 
 I love him better than his work ; and yet 
 That's more to me than aught — himself beside. 
 
 Martha Ah, child, you boast your love, but 'tis a crude 
 Passion of youth most like to selfishness 
 Which clasps its heart's desire thus feverishly. 
 You separate him and his work. They are one, 
 
 38
 
 And if between them you should make divorce 
 You give to neither. Mary, the love he needs 
 Is the pure flower of deep self-sacrifice 
 That counts nothing its own, so it may serve 
 Its lord with heart unsoiled by thought of self. 
 Come. Let's prepare the room. Here's instance 
 
 too. 
 We waste the hours talking about our love 
 And he will come and find nothing made ready 
 As for a guest. 
 
 Mary Oh, must we ask him to that cold, bare place ? 
 I'd rather he should use our common room. 
 
 Martha Why ? 
 
 Mary I scarce know. 'Twould seem more homely p'raps. 
 
 Martha Well, you must give him what you will : for me 
 The best seems all too poor for such an one, 
 
 (She goes out) 
 
 Mary The best. What is the best ? Service is good, 
 But is there nothing better ? 
 Yes, for an ass gives more. 
 Then must it ever be that man expects 
 Less from his love than from the humblest beast ? 
 Or must he love the labour of his hands 
 
 39
 
 Better than flesh and blood ? Can that be true ? 
 
 1 wonder, must a simple woman's love 
 
 Be always different from a man's : different in kind, 
 
 In hope, in purpose, singleness and end ? 
 
 Must women love, merely to bear a babe, 
 
 And men in hunger, or for mere furthering 
 
 Of other ends than love's ? Oh, 'tis not so ! 
 
 I know it, know it, know it in my heart ; 
 
 For love's a girdle God puts round the earth 
 
 Like a great ring, wedding itself to Him ; 
 
 It has no end, but when we have given all 
 
 Is procreant and creative, not alone 
 
 In the new spirit dowered with mortal life, 
 
 But with the great inrush of living joy 
 
 That fills the tiniest inlets of our being 
 
 When we can give our all : finding in giving 
 
 Capacity for receiving grow in us 
 
 Till, even as God, we embrace the world itself. 
 
 He must know that. Surely he must know that. 
 Oh, if I could but know he knew it too 
 Methinks the very knowledge would suffice 
 This earthly life. Martha will never know. 
 She loves him with her best — I with my all. 
 But even now her love takes pains for him 
 While I sit idling. I will go and help. 
 
 40
 
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