( TO H. S. S.)

By John Drinkwater

The barriers of sleep are crossed

And I alone am yet awake,

Keeping another Pentecost

For that new visitation’ s sake

Of life descending on the hills

In blackthorn bloom and daffodils.

At peace upon my pillow lain

I celebrate the spirit come

In spring’ s immutable youth again

Across the lands of Christendom;

I hear in all the choral host

The coming of the Holy Ghost.

The sacrament of bough and blade,

Of populous folds and building birds

I take, till now an end is made

Of praise and ceremonial words,

And I too turn myself to keep

The quiet festival of sleep.