PHOCAS
“Blessed be God!” he cried: “O Earth,
Thy shadows flit and fail!
My day is dawn’d, my dark is past.
O light that brings the Light at last!
O risen sun, O Rising Sun,
O death, O Life! All hail!”
But the barb’d Rose his raiment caught
As glad he turn’d to go.
And pausing, looking down, he said,
“Ah, my poor flowers! When I am dead,
Seeds, and the uncouth wildlings will,
How quickly! lay you low.
“Who, being perish’d—O there comes
A strange hope to my mind!
Will that good God whose mercy can
A heaven bestow on erring man
To His green world that never fell
Be less completely kind?
“I shall see Him! Ah, then I shall
Nought else desire to see!
But if your diligence ye do,
He, loving beauty, must love you:
And round the many mansions, sure
Must many gardens be?
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