The unity of form and content is what distinguishes poetry from other areas of creativity. However, this is precisely what titanic work implies. 'All's Well!' by John Oxenham (free novel reading sites txt) 📖
- Author: John Oxenham
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Evening brings us home at last,
To quiet rest in Thee.
From the Dim-Lands, from the Grim-Lands,
from the Lands of High Emprise,
From the Lands of Disillusion to the Truth that never dies;
With rejoicing and with singing,
Each his rightful sheaves home-bringing,—
Evening brings us all at last,
To Harvest-Home with Thee.
From the fields of fiery trying, where our bravest and our best,
By their living and their dying their souls' high faith attest,
From these dread, red fields of sorrow,
From the fight for Thy To-morrow,—
Evening brings each one at last,
To GOD'S own Peace in Thee.
All through the blood-red Autumn,
When the harvest came to the full;
When the days were sweet with sunshine,
And the nights were wonderful,—
The Reaper reaped without ceasing.
All through the roaring Winter,
When the skies were black with wrath,
When earth alone slept soundly,
And the seas were white with froth,—
The Reaper reaped without ceasing.
All through the quick of the Spring-time,
When the birds sang cheerily,
When the trees and the flowers were burgeoning,
And men went wearily,—
The Reaper reaped without ceasing.
All through the blazing Summer,
When the year was at its best,
When Earth, subserving God alone,
In her fairest robes was dressed,—
The Reaper reaped without ceasing.
So, through the Seasons' roundings,
While nature waxed and waned,
And only man by thrall of man
Was scarred and marred and stained,—
The Reaper reaped without ceasing.
How long, O Lord, shall the Reaper
Harry the growing field?
Stretch out Thy Hand and stay him,
Lest the future no fruit yield!—
And the Gleaner find nought for His gleaning.
Thy Might alone can end it,—
This fratricidal strife.
Our souls are sick with the tale of death,
Redeem us back to life!—
That the Gleaner be glad in His gleaning.
Where one is,
There am I,—
No man goeth alone!
Though he fly to earth's remotest bound,
Though his soul in the depths of sin be drowned,—
No man goeth alone!
Though he take him the wings of fear, and flee
Past the outermost realms of light;
Though he weave him a garment of mystery,
And hide in the womb of night,—
No man goeth alone!
Though apart in the city's heart he dwell,
Though he wander beyond the stars,
Though he bury himself in his nethermost hell,
And vanish behind the bars,—
No man goeth alone!
For I, God, am the soul of man,
And none can Me dethrone.
Where one is,
There am I,—
No man goeth alone!
Singing, she washed
Her baby's clothes,
And, one by one,
As they were done,
She hung them in the sun to dry,
She hung them on a bush hard by,
Upon a waiting bush hard by,
A glad expectant bush hard by,
To dry in the sweet of the morning.
The while, her son,
Her little son,
Lay kicking, gleeful,
In the sun,—
Her little, naked, Virgin son.
O wondrous sight! Amazing sight!—
The Lord, who did the sun create,
Lay kicking with a babe's delight,
Regardless of His low estate,
In joy of nakedness elate,
In His own sun's fair light!
And all the sweet, sweet, sweet of Him
Clave to the bush, and still doth cleave,
And doth forever-more outgive
The fragrant holy sweet of Him.
Where'er it thrives
That bush forthgives
The faint, rare, sacred sweet of Him.
So—ever sweet, and ever green,
Shall Rosemary be queen.
The sun shone white and fair,
This Eastertide,
Yet all its sweetness seemed but to deride
Our souls' despair;
For stricken hearts, and loss and pain,
Were everywhere.
We sang our Alleluias,—
We said, "The Christ is risen!
From this His earthly prison,
The Christ indeed is risen.
He is gone up on high,
To the perfect peace of heaven."
Then, with a sigh,
We wondered…
Our minds evolved grim hordes of huns,
Our bruised hearts sank beneath the guns,
On our very souls they thundered.
Can you wonder?—Can you wonder,
That we wondered,
As we heard the huns' guns thunder?
That we looked in one another's eyes
And wondered,—
"Is Christ indeed then risen from the dead?
Hath He not rather fled
For ever from a world where He
Meets such contumely?"
Our hearts were sick with pain,
As they beat the sad refrain,—
"How shall the Lord Christ come again?
How can the Lord Christ come again?
Nay,—will He come again?
Is He not surely fled
For ever from a world where He
Is still so buffeted?"
But the day's glory all forbade
Such depth of woe. Came to our aid
The sun, the birds, the springing things,
The winging things, the singing things;
And taught us this,—
After each Winter cometh Spring,—
God's hand is still in everything,—
His mighty purposes are sure,—
His endless love doth still endure,
And will not cease, nor know remiss,
Despite man's forfeiture.
The Lord is risen indeed!
In very truth and deed
The Lord is risen, is risen, is risen;
He will supply our need.
So we took heart again,
And built us refuges from pain
Within His coverture,—
Strong towers of Love, and Hope, and Faith,
That shall maintain
Our souls' estate
Too high and great
For even Death to violate.
On Christmas Day The Child was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning;—
—To tread the long way, lone and lorn,
—To wear the bitter crown of thorn,
—To break the heart by man's sins torn,
—To die at last the Death of Scorn.
For this The Child of The Maid was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning.
But that first day when He was born,
Among the cattle and the corn,
The sweet Maid-Mother wondering,
And sweetly, deeply, pondering
The words that in her heart did ring,
Unto her new-born king did sing,—
"My baby, my baby,
My own little son,
Whence come you,
Where go you,
My own little one?
Whence come you?
Ah now, unto me all alone
That wonder of wonders is properly known.
Where go you?
Ah, that now, 'tis only He knows,
Who sweetly on us, dear, such favour bestows.
In us, dear, this day is some great work begun,—
Ah me, little son dear, I would it were done!
I wonder … I wonder …
And—wish—it—were—done!
"O little, little feet, dears.
So curly, curly sweet!—
How will it be with you, dears,
When all your work's complete?
O little, little hands, dears,
That creep about my breast!—
What great things you will do, dears,
Before you lie at rest!
O softest little head, dear,
It shall have crown of gold,
For it shall have great honour
Before the world grows old!
O sweet, white, soft round body,
It shall sit upon a throne!
My little one, my little one,
Thou art the Highest's son!
All this the angel told me,
And so I'm sure it's true,
For he told me who was coming,—
And that sweet thing is YOU."
On Christmas Day The Child was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning;—
—He trod the long way, lone and lorn,
—He wore the bitter crown of thorn,
—His hands and feet and heart were torn,
—He died at last the Death of Scorn.
But through His coming Death was slain,
That you and I might live again.
For this The Child of The Maid was born,
On Christmas Day in the morning.
Think not of any one of them as wasted,
Or to the void like broken tools outcasted,—
Unnoticed, unregretted, and unknown.
Not so is His care shown.
Know this!—
In God's economy there is no waste,
As in His Work no slackening, no haste;
But noiselessly, without a sign,
The measure of His vast design
Is all fulfilled, exact as He hath willed.
And His good instruments He tends with care,
Lest aught their future usefulness impair,—
As Master-craftsman his choice tools doth tend,
Respecting each one as a trusty friend,
Cleans them, and polishes, and puts away,
For his good usage at some future day;—
So He unto Himself has taken these,
Not to their loss but to their vast increase.
To us,—the loss, the emptiness, the pain;
But unto them—all high eternal gain.
To us it seemed his life was too soon done,
Ended, indeed, while scarcely yet begun;
God, with His clearer vision, saw that he
Was ready for a larger ministry.
Just so we thought of Him, whose life below
Was so full-charged with bitterness and woe,
Our clouded vision would have crowned Him King,
He chose the lowly way of suffering.
Remember, too, how short His life on earth,—
But three-and-thirty years 'twixt death and birth.
And of those years but three whereof we know,
Yet those three years immortal seed did sow.
It is not tale of years that tells the whole
Of Man's success or failure, but the soul
He brings to them, the songs he sings to them,
The steadfast gaze he fixes on the goal.
Winter hung about the ways,
Very loth to go.
Little Spring could not get past him,
Try she never so.
This side,—that side, everywhere,
Winter held the track.
Little Spring sat down and whimpered,
Winter humped his back.
Summer called her,—"Come, dear, come!
Why do you delay?"
"Come and help me, Sister Summer,
Winter blocks my way."
Little Spring tried everything,
Sighs and moans and tears,
Winter howled with mocking laughter,
Covered her with jeers.
Winter, rough old surly beggar,
Practised every vice,
Pelted her with hail and snow storms,
Clogged her feet with ice.
But, by chance at last they caught him
Unawares one day,
Tied his hands and feet, and dancing,
Sped upon their way.
Art thou lonely, O my brother?
Share thy little with another!
Stretch a hand to one unfriended,
And thy loneliness is ended.
So both thou and he
Shall less lonely be.
And of thy one loneliness
Shall come two's great happiness.
"Comfort ye, my people!" Saith your God,— "And be ye comforted! And—be—ye—comforted!"
Roughly my plough did plough you,
Sharp were my strokes, and sore,
But nothing less could bow you,
Nothing less could your souls restore
To the depths and the heights of my longing,
To the strength you had known before.
For—you were falling, falling,
Even the best of you,
Falling from your high calling;
And this, My test of you,
Has been for your souls' redemption
From the little things of earth,
What seemed to you death's agony
Was but a greater birth.
And now you shall have gladness
For the years you have seen ill;
Give up to Me your sadness,
And I your cup will fill.
"My lord, there came unto the gate
One, in such pitiful estate,
So all forlorn and desolate,
Ill-fed, ill-clad, of ills compact;
A leper too,—his poor flesh wracked
And dead, his very bones infect;
Of all God's sons none so abject.
I could not, on the Lord's own day,
Turn such a stricken one away.
In pity him I took, and fed,
And happed him in our royal bed."
"A leper!—in our bed!—Nay then,
My Queen, thy charities do pass
The bounds of sense at times! A bane
On such unwholesome tenderness!
Dost nothing owe to him who shares
Thy couch, and suffers by thy cares?
He could have slept upon the floor,
And left you still his creditor.
A leper!—in my bed!—God's truth!
Out upon such outrageous ruth!"
He strode in anger towards the bed,
And lo!—
The Christ, with thorn-crowned head,
Lay there in sweet sleep pillowed.
"Rattle and clatter and clank and whirr,"—
And it's long and long the day is.
From earliest morn to late at night,
And all night long, the selfsame song,—-
"Rattle and clank and whirr."
Day in, day out, all day, all night,—
"Rattle and clank and whirr;"
With faces tight, with all our might,—
"Rattle and clank and whirr;"
We may not stop and we dare not err;
Our men are risking their lives out there,
And we at home must do our share;—
But it's long and long the day is.
We'll break if we must, but we cannot spare
A thought for ourselves, or the kids, or care,
For it's "Rattle and clatter and clank and whirr;"
Our men are giving their lives out there
And we'll give ours, we will do our share,—
"Rattle and clank and whirr."
Are our faces grave, and our eyes intent?
Is every ounce that is in us bent
On the uttermost pitch of accomplishment?
Though it's long and long the day is!
Ah—we know what it means if we fool or slack;
—A rifle jammed,—and one comes not back;
And we never forget,—it's for us they gave;
And so we will slave, and slave, and slave,
Lest the men at the front should rue it.
Their all they gave, and their lives we'll save,
If the hardest of work can do it;—
But it's long and long the day is.
Eight hours', ten hours', twelve hours' shift;—
Oh, it's long and long the day is!
Up before light, and home in the night,
That is our share in the desperate fight;—
And it's long and long
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