PHOCAS
“My kindly good Green Things!” he said,
“Seventy years and seven
Together, and but one night more!
For I go through a sudden door
Home . . . God forgive me! Would I have
Aught that is earth’s in heaven?
“My little comrades, fast asleep,
God be with you this night!
Yea, night and morning, storm and sun,
God walk with you! God’s will be done!
Bless ye the Lord, my well-beloved,
For all His ways are right.
“And now, the one last grace. Ye know
When your cramp’d roots did pine,
I, loving you, transplanted you:
So now will God the Gardener do
With Phocas, His poor plant—Give room,
Amid your roots, for mine.”
He girt his robe, and tenderly
Uplifted, root by root,
And planted in a neighbouring lot,
The flowers that fill’d the destin’d spot.
An olive-tree hung over it,
Bow’d down with ripening fruit.
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