The Great Chance
NOW strikes the hour upon the clock
The black sheep may rebuild the years
May lift the father's pride he broke
And wipe away his mother's tears.
To him, the mark for thrifty scorn;
God hath another chance to give,
Sets in his heart a flame new-born
By which his muddied soul may live.
This is the day of the prodigal,
The decent people's shame and grief,
When he shall make amends for all.
The way to Glory's bloody and brief.
Clean from his baptism, of blood,
New from the fire he springs again,
In shining raiment white and good,
Beyond the wise, home-keeping man.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Mid the Piteous Heaps of Dead
'MID the piteous heaps of dead
Goes one weary golden head
Tossing ever to and fro,
Calling loud and calling low.
Mother, mother, step so light,
Mother, lay your fingers white
On my forehead like a dew !
Mother, mother, where are you?
Still so loud he makes his cry
That the dying cannot die;
All the writhing field's one groan
While he lies and cries alone.
But his mother's far away;
Cannot hear him cry and say:
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Dream: (For my Father)
Over and over again I dream a dream,
I am coming home to you in the starlit gloam;
Long was the day from you and sweet 'twill seem
The day is over and I am coming home.
Then I shall find you as in days long past,
Sitting so quietly in the firelight glow;
'Love,' you will say to me, 'you are come at last.'
Your eyes be glad of me as long ago.
All I have won since then will slip my hold,
Dear love and children, the long years away;
I shall come home to you the girl of old,
Glad to come home to you -- oh, glad to stay!
Often and often I am dreaming yet
Of the firelit window when I've crossed the hill
And I coming home to you from night and wet:
Often and often I am dreaming still.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Wild Geese
(A Lament for the Irish Jacobites.)
I have heard the curlew crying
On a lonely moor and mere;
And the sea-gull's shriek in the gloaming
Is a lonely sound in the ear:
And I've heard the brown thrush mourning
For her children stolen away;--
But it's O for the homeless Wild Geese
That sailed ere the dawn of day!
For the curlew out on the moorland
Hath five fine eggs in the nest;
And the thrush will get her a new love
And sing her song with the best.
As the swallow flies to the Summer
Will the gull return to the sea:
But never the wings of the Wild Geese
Will flash over seas to me.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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A Song for the New Year {1915}
THE Year of the Sorrows went out with great wind:
Lift up, lift up, O broken hearts, your Lord is kind,
And He shall call His flock home where no storms be
Into a sheltered haven out of sound of the sea.
There shall be bright sands there and a milken hill,
They shall lie in the sun there and drink their fill,
They shall have dew and shade there and grass to the knee,
Safe in a sheltered haven out of sound of the sea.
He shall bind their wounds up and their tears shall cease:
They shall have sweetest pillows and a bed of ease.
Come up, come up and hither, O little flock, saith He,
Ye shall have sheltered havens out of sound of the sea.
The first day of New Year strewed the sea with dead.
Lift up, lift up, O broken heart and hanging head!
The Lord walks on the waters and a Shepherd is He
They shall have sheltered havens out of sound of the sea.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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Distraction
When swarms of small distractions harry
Devotion like the gnats that fly
Till prayers are cold and customary,
Not such as please Thee, Heaven-high.
When I forget for all my striving
Thy presence holy and august,
Be Thou not angry, but forgiving
To her Thou madest from the dust.
Say to Thyself: This mortal being,
So deaf, so blind, so prone to sin,
Has glimpses of Me without seeing
The places where the nails went in.
Say: Through the crusts of earth, My creature
Perceives Me, hails Me Lord above;
Rumours of the lost innocence reach her,
With full assurance of My love.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Prayer At Night
Lord, for the one who dies alone
This night without companion,
I cannot rest, I cannot sleep.
O shepherd of the piteous sheep
Run with Thy crook, and lift in haste
The poor head to Thy loving breast.
Oh slake his deadly thirst from streams
Of Paradise, and give him dreams
Of the mild weather, the green sward.
Bind up his bitter wounds, O Lord,
And give him comfort. Let him know
His Shepherd 'tis that loves him so.
Thou countest Thy flock: not one is lost
But Thou goest seeking, for Thou knowest
The poor things creep away to die
Where none shall find save Thou art nigh.
Thou tak'st them to Thy arms, Thy knees,
And Thy sick lambs have sweetest ease.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Vigil
At night, when all the house is still,
Wide-waked the chairs and tables come
And yawn and stretch their limbs until
The maids appear with pan and broom.
Through the dim hours they creak and groan,
Their laughter plays with tyrant Man,
Shaken with stiff derision
For his pretensions and his span.
Where's then their willing servitude ?
Meek slaves for their creator's use.
They make a mock of flesh and blood
That passes with a morning's dews.
The heart that once leaped in the tree
Yet lives in the fantastic shapes
That foolish Man hath made to be --
But see how wide yon cupboard gapes!
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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The Great May
Who said the Spring was dead?
She would not come again,
Dust on her starry head,
For a sad world in pain?
The thing they have said in vain,
She comes new garlanded:
Lovely on hill and plain
Her lights, her flowers are shed.
Never was such a May!
Mercy of God, to prove
Life springs from the clay
And every treasured love
Walks in a heavenly grove.
The Lord God's holiday
To the soft coo of the dove
With the young lambs at play.
Lo! yours, and yours, are there,
I see them leap and run
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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A Birth-Night Song
The Child is rocked on Mary's knee,
Cold in the stall this bitter night,
And 'Lullalay-loo,' soft singeth she,
'My little Boy and Heaven's Delight!'
When singing stars went up the sky
The Prince of Peace oped a sweet eye.
His Highness now how small He lies!
He to be God and Very God!
A Jacob's ladder spans the skies
Whereof each rung is angel-trod,
And all their carols are of Peace,
Though the sick world hath little ease.
Come in, poor war-worn folk, and rest;
Kneel where the sinless creatures kneel;
The Babe snugged warm in Mother's breast,
He is your Wound-Wort, your All-Heal
Balsam for hurts that throb and smart,
Small Rose of Love on Mary's heart.
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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