Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TO A POET; GRACE AFTER READING, by MARY ANGELITA


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO A POET; GRACE AFTER READING, by                    
First Line: This is no book
Last Line: Are flocks of singing birds?
Alternate Author Name(s): Stackhouse, Mary Agnes


This is no book.
It is a cloistered garden wherein grows
The proud and perfect rose,
And all the lovely children of the year
Bloom in this sheltered close,
While every little singing wind
Bears fragrant cargoes, of that sweetness wrought,
And everywhere I find
Celestial honey for my bees of thought.

This is no book. It is a pleasure place
Of ordered beauty, tranquil grace --
The loveliness of shaded paths,
Smooth lawns on which the slanting sunlight lies;
And sudden vistas opening wide
To far horizons, peaks austere and pure,
The wide blue glory of the steadfast skies,
Still pools that hold all heaven in their span.

This is no book. It is an armory
Where I may gird my spirit for the strife,
The difficult battle that we men call life,
Choosing what weapons most are to my mind:
High truth, supreme resolve,
And poverty and pain --
Cold, sharp, and beautiful,
Two-edged, for blessings or for bane --
And prayer, that slender blade so swift and sure,
And simple tenderness, quiet and kind.
No book, I say. There is a window here
That looks on earth and heaven, and through its glass
I see heroic figures pass
Of olden days or of the newer time:
Shakespeare and Keats, who, seeking laurels, found
A bed of amaranth and asphodel;
Jerome and Benedict, a brotherhood more dear,
Martin, whom chivalrous hearts have loved so well,
And Francis, dweller of the Umbrian clime;
A queen -- the lowly Maid of Nazareth,
Whose beauty lays a hush upon the heart;
And ah! a Child's white feet,
Small, and very sweet,
Pass and repass,
Their footfalls making music in my soul
As swift they move to their appointed goal,
The awful Mount of Love and Death.

This is no book. Rather a vial, say,
Wherein are precious essences distilled
Of blissful solitude;
A jar with fragrant petals filled
That keep the memory of summer suns
And summer skies,
To breathe them forth
Into the bleakness of our wintry North.
Beauty is here, wearing in thoughtful mood
A cloak of quiet hues, most dear disguise!
This is no book,
No thing of paper and of printer's ink,
No tinkling rosary of rhyme on rhyme.
How can I think
Of books, when every page is like a chime
Of golden bells at twilight, and the words
Are flocks of singing birds?





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