The Sermon ( Wales, 1920 )

Like gript stick

Still I sit:

Eyes fixed on far small eyes,

Full of it:

On the old, broad face,

The hung chin;

Heavy arms, surplice

Worn through and worn thin.

Probe I the hid mind

Under the gross flesh:

Clutch at poetic words,

Follow their mesh

Scarce heaving breath.

Clutch, marvel, wonder,

Till the words end.

Stilled is the muttered thunder:

The hard, few people wake,

Gather their books and go...

— Whether their hearts could break

How can I know?