Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, COUNSELS OF PERFECTION, by CHARLES WILLIAMS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

COUNSELS OF PERFECTION, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Under the trees of pilgrimage
Last Line: Yet thou perchance no nigher.'
Subject(s): Love; Pilgrimages & Pilgrims


UNDER the trees of pilgrimage
Two wedded lovers rode,
And made by night beneath the boughs
Their wandering abode.

And as with little laughing talk
They rested by the flame
Along the path of pilgrimage
A preaching friar came.

Weary he was with many a league,
So long the race he ran,
And speed was all the road he trod;
Lean were his limbs and thewed with God,
He was a mighty man.

With a high air and insolent
He viewed those lovers' cheer,
And hailed them with a scornful voice:
'Sluggards, why rest ye here?

'Know ye not well how far from here
Your Father's house is built,
How listlessness upon the way
Is more than all of guilt?

'Keep ye the business of the way—
Those high perfections three,
Obedience, virginal desire,
And holy poverty?

Up, up, neglect those changing eyes,
This shy pretended peace!
What place hath love within the law,
Or what your joy's increase?'

Answered the bride: 'What angry foot
Sounds here that never paced
Where all is tranquil urgency
And naught is toilsome haste?

'Thy versicles upon the road
Cry: Nought save God can be:
O foolishness! without our clear
Response: These too are He!

'Triple the arduous oaths ye took
Ere your way was begun,
But we, once sworn, were sworn to all
The darkling three-in-one.

'O Chastity!—but we were pledged
Of old to Him alone!
O Poverty!—but save for Him
Riches we have not known!

'O dear Obedience!—but the law
That orders us is seen,
Love that is He and is ourselves
And all the bonds between!

'We two were pledged to follow Him
Where'er that guiding went,
Stripped of possession and desire
And foreign government.

'I gave myself to love, and truth
Therein and poverty;
And even so, by cross and Christ,
My lord was given to me.

'One is the road of pilgrimage
We follow, noon and night,
Towards the house on the high hill
In our midmost Delight.

'And when we rest beside our fire
Because the way grows dim,
The way hath borne us, ere the dawn,
A thousand miles to Him.

'Fair chance upon your pilgrimage
Befall you, preaching friar;
We rest, far distant from the End,
Yet thou perchance no nigher.'





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