Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall(14 September 1883 - 19 April 1922 / Gunnersbury, London)
- by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall145
WHEN I was a little lad With folly on my lips, Fain was I for journeying All the seas in ships. But now across the southern swell, Every dawn I hear The little streams of Duna Running clear.
When I was a young man, Before my beard was gray, All to ships and sailormen I gave my heart away. But I'm weary of the sea-wind, I'm weary of the foam, And the little stars of Duna Call me home.
- by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall91
Through the starred Judean night She went, in travail of the Light, With the earliest hush she saw God beside her in the straw.
One poor taper glimmered clear, Drowsing Joseph nodded near, All the glooms were rosed with wings. She that knew the Spirit's kiss Wearied of the bright abyss. She was tired of heavenly things. There between the day and night These she counted for delight:
Baby kids that butted hard In the shadowy stable yard; Silken doves that dipped and preened Where the crumbling well-curb greened; Sparrows in the vine, and small Sapphired flies upon the wall, So lovely they seemed musical.
In the roof a swift had built. All the new-born airs were spilt Out of cups the morning made Of a glory and a shade. These her solemn eyelids felt While unseen the seraphs knelt. Then a young mouse, sleek and bold, Rustling in the winnowed gold, To her shadow crept, and curled Near the Ransom of the World.
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