Many Voices. Эдит Несбит

have not left us a handful

         Of even the earth He trod . . .

      You have made Him a rich man’s idol

         Who came as a poor man’s God.

      He promised the poor His heaven,

         He loved and lived with the poor;

      He said that the rich man’s shadow

         Should never darken His door:

      But bishops and priests lie softly,

         Drink full and are fully fed

      In the Name of the Lord, who had not

         Where to lay His head.

      This is the God you have stolen,

         As you steal all else—in His name.

      You have taken the ease and the honour,

         Left us the toil and the shame.

      You have chosen the seat of Dives,

         We lie where Lazarus lay;

      But, by God, we will not yield you our God,

         You shall not take Him away.

      All else we had you have taken;

         All else, but not this, not this.

      The God of Heaven is ours, is ours,

         And the poor are His, are His.

      Is He ours?  Is He yours?  Give answer!

         For both He cannot be.

      And if He is ours—O you rich men,

         Then whose, in God’s name, are ye?

      WINTER

      Hold your hands to the blaze;

         Winter is here

      With the short cold days,

         Bleak, keen and drear.

      Was there ever a day

      With hawthorn along the way

      Where you wandered in mild mid-May

         With your dear?

      That was when you were young

         And the world was gold;

      Now all the songs are sung,

         The tales all told.

      You shiver now by the fire

      Where the last red sparks expire;

      Dead are delight and desire:

         You are old.

      SEA-SHELLS

      I gathered shells upon the sand,

         Each shell a little perfect thing,

      So frail, yet potent to withstand

         The mountain-waves’ wild buffeting.

      Through storms no ship could dare to brave

      The little shells float lightly, save

      All that they might have lost of fine

      Shape and soft colour crystalline.

      Yet I amid the world’s wild surge

         Doubt if my soul can face the strife,

      The waves of circumstance that urge

         That slight ship on the rocks of life.

      O soul, be brave, for He who saves

      The frail shell in the giant waves,

      Will bring thy puny bark to land

      Safe in the hollow of His hand.

      HOPE

      O thrush, is it true?

         Your song tells

      Of a world born anew,

      Of fields gold with buttercups, woodlands all blue

         With hyacinth bells;

      Of primroses deep

         In the moss of the lane,

      Of a Princess asleep

      And dear magic to do.

      Will the sun wake the princess?  O thrush, is it true?