_ST. GEORGE-IN-THE-EAST_
'Mid the quiet splendour of a pennoned crowd,
Gently proud,
Moved in armour, silvered in celestial forge,
Great Saint George,
Stands he in the crimson-woven air of fight
Speared with light--
Hell is harried by the holy anger poured
From his sword.
Where the sweated toilers of the river slum
Shiver dumb,
Passed to-day a poorly clad and poorly shod
Knight of God;
Where the human eddy smears with shame and rags
Paving flags,
Hell shall weakly wail beneath the words he cries
Piteous-wise.
* * * * *
VIOLA MEYNELL
_THE RUIN_
I led thy thoughts, having them for my own,
To where my God His head to thee did bend.
I bore thee in my bosom to His throne.
O, the blest labour, and the treasured end!
Now like a ruined aqueduct I go
Unburdened; thou by more fleet ways hast been
With Him. Since thou thine own swift road dost know,
Thou canst not brook such slow and devious mean.
_THE DREAM_
I slept, and thought a letter came from you--
You did not love me any more, it said.
What breathless grief!--my love not true, not true ...
I was afraid of people, and afraid
Of things inanimate--the wind that blew,
The clock, the wooden chair; and so I strayed
From home, but could not stray from grief, I knew.
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