Monuments

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Monuments

Poem

Meagre are my means in this cycle,
Ordained by Thee this generous poverty
Stifling the graceful roads of generosity
And the free nobility of my soul.

Each monument I see of stone and marble,
All the rich storied tall edifices
Reminding heaven of earth’s magnificences
Only leave me subtly wanting and stoical.

Had I but means, Oh the stories I’ll tell
Of Thee, a tale from every word of Thine,
Hold Thy every gesture in a form pristine
And bind all men in its rapture-spell.

In Thy employ are but the chivalry of men
Or only the measured motion of cautious gods,
All by a dull morality reduce Thy prominence
And make of Thee a man grown Titan.

Curb me not, avert Thy judging gaze,
Fetter me not by Thy patient will,
For am Thine in body, mind and soul
Here to efface the moss upon Thy name.

Until I can my stories freely tell
I shall build in my heart many monuments,
Source from my ardour much opulence
And raise for Thee many a glittering hall.

I shall keep at bay the vying gods
Nor admit the grovelling pernicious Titan,
Each high seat and sceptred throne within
Shall only bear Thy name barring others.

Oh how many are the vagrances of my heart,
Stung by Thee in a mere fleeting instant!