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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PILGRIMS by RACHEL ANNAND TAYLOR

First Line: THE PAGES OF THE PERFECT GREEK
Last Line: WHEN SHALL WE QUITE FORGET?
Subject(s): PILGRIMAGES & PILGRIMS;
@3The Clerks.@1

THE pages of the perfect Greek,
And all our lovely heathen lore,
Our pastorals, and gods antique,—
We burned them, which we did adore.
Pilatus wrote, that all may read
Thy Name above the Cross indeed.
(O hard behest!—Thy Words are best.
But Jesu! help us to forget!)

@3The Knights.@1

We have cast off the subtile mail
And broken with our bride the Sword.
From sins of violence we quail
As caitiffs for Thy sake, sweet Lord,—
Far from the golden great mellay
That ringeth like a morn of May.
(O sword and crest!—Thy Will is best!
But, Jesu! help us to forget!)

@3The Ladies.@1

We left the lute with broken string,
The web of tapestry undone,
The falcon with his wearied wing,
The lilies fainting in the sun,—
The web of dreamy scarlet dyes,
The falcon Love far-off that dies.
(O beating breast!—Thy Love is best!
But Jesu! help us to forget!)

@3The Monks.@1

Across the litanies there came
A dream of oriflammes and spears:
Within the vigil woke like flame
A dream of kisses and of tears.
The body for the Soul we slew,
But Love and Wrath like souls shone through
The cloister bars. Those flagrant stars
O Jesu! help us to forget!

@3All together.@1

Now over all the low blue hills
Winds on the masque of Spring:
Green, gold, and white upon the hills
The Paynim masque of Spring!
Of all the buried daffodils
Not one hath she forgot:
But us she quickeneth not.

Us she reneweth not, albeit
Amid her revelry
But yester-April, fair and fleet,
Her masquers too were we,—
Singing that we were hers,
Not children of the Curse.

But children we of very Death
Unless Thou quicken us:
And so we draw this bitter breath,
And so we travail thus.
For like a wind Thy Spirit saith
O'er pipe and violin:
"It is but shame and sin."

Mile after mile the road crawls by,
But are we nearer Thee?
Against what holy beryl sky
Shall rise the Crosses three?
When shall Thy beauty like a sigh
Cleanse us from vain-regret?
When shall we quite forget?



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