Page:Poems Greenwell.djvu/222

      The World that puts Thee by,
That opens not to greet Thee with Thy train,
 That sendeth after Thee the sullen cry,
"We will not have Thee over us to reign;"
Itself doth testify through searchings vain
Of Thee and of its need, and for the good
It will not, of some base similitude
Takes up a taunting witness, till its mood,
Grown fierce o'er failing hopes, doth rend and tear
Its own illusions grown too thin and bare
To wrap it longer; for within the gate
Where all must pass, a veiled and hooded Fate,
A dark Chimera, coiled and tangled lies.
And he who answers not its questions dies,—
Still changing form and speech, but with the same
Vexed riddles, Gordian-twisted, bringing shame
Upon the nations that with eager cry
Hail each new solver of the mystery;
 Yet he, of these the best,
 Bold guesser, hath but prest
Most nigh to Thee, our noisy plaudits wrong;
 True Champion, that hast wrought
 Our help of old, and brought
Meat from this eater, sweetness from this strong.

      Oh, Bearer of the key
That shuts and opens with a sound so sweet
Its turning in the wards is melody—
All things we move among are incomplete
And vain until we fashion them in Thee!