THE SAINT'S BIRTHDAY

One of God's blessed pitying saints one day,

Reaching out hands to touch the azure throne:

“Because it is my birthday, Lord,” he said,

“That I was born in heaven, when I was known

By an earthly name, and stoned and left for dead,

“Because it is the custom, Lord, of men

To keep their birthdays gladly, and with gifts

Grant me a blessing from your blessed stores.”

And from the cloudy rose and amber drifts

About the Throne, God answered: “It is yours.”

Then sprang the glad Saint earthwards; at his feet

Were little golden flames, and all his hair

Was blown about his head like tongues of fire,

And like a star he burned through the dark air,

And came, and stood by farm and shed and byre

Before the earliest grey was in the East,

Or the first smoke above the chimney-stack

From earliest-rising housewife, yet the cheep

And twitter of birds did gladly welcome back

Him who such love for earth in heaven could keep,

And who on earth such love had had for men

And bird and beast, and all that lived and grew:

The sparrows in the eaves remembered him

And chirrupped in the gables, while the dew

Was dark still, and the day below the rim.

He stood there, in the village of his life

Ere he won heaven, and the breath of cows

Came as a benediction, and the smell

Of rain-sweet copses, and, where cattle browse,

Long grass, and running water in the dell.

And his heart opened with the love he had

For the dear toil-worn dwelling-place of men;

To hear the sheep crop, see the glimmering grey

Lighten the waiting windows once again,

And garden roses opening to the day.

Not otherwise was Eden once — he thought —

And by God's blessing it may be anew:

And so put forth the power God had lent

And took away all labour, and he drew

Heaven to earth, till earth and heaven were blent.

Time ceased to be; and yet the sun and shade

Shifted to make new beauty with the hours,

And the ripe earth, unlaboured, gave her yields,

No pain there was, no age, and all the flowers

Unwitheringly lovely filled the fields.

And all day long the birds in ecstasy

Sang without shadow of hawk or thought of death,

And the saint happily went about the ways

Filling each home with plenty — his very breath

Was like a little thrilling note of praise.

When all was done he stepped back, childish-wise,

To see and love his handiwork, and then

Came a sharp pain, and pierced him through and through;

He had wrought lovingly for the days of men,

But the heart of men his love could not renew:

The weary heart, the ever-questioning,

The loving, lacking, lonely, incomplete

For ever longing to be merged in one

With something other than itself; to beat

To another's pulse; to be for ever done

With its sad weight of personality.

Then God leaned down to his poor saint, and said:

“Dear soul, would you make heaven upon the earth:

Nor know indeed My purpose in all birth,

Nor that My blessing is upon the dead?”