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Poem by Louise Imogen Guiney


NO round boy-satyr, racing from the mere,
Shakes on the mountain-lawn his dripping head
This many a May, your sister being dead,
Ye Christian folk! your sister great and dear.
To breathe her name, to think how sad-sincere
Was all her searching, straying, dreaming, dread,
How of her natural night was Plato bred,
A star to keep the ways of honor clear,
Who will not sigh for her? who can forget
Not only unto campèd Israel,
Nor martyr-maids that as a bridegroom met
The Roman lions roar, salvation fell?
To Him be most of praise that He is yet
Your God thro gods not inaccessible.

Louise Imogen Guiney

Louise Imogen Guiney's other poems:
  1. In a Perpendicular Church
  2. Of Joans Youth
  3. In a Ruin, after a Thunder-Storm
  4. The Vigil-at-Arms
  5. Spring Nightfall

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