Paschalion A

In the ashen mist

we have gone out.

In the dampness

of a restless day

that shudders into life.

 

Amidst the dew

and dimness

of the morning light,

that skirts, that curtsies,

to our beleaguered sight,

the rising sun precludes

all that is dim

and that which hears not glory

falters, fails and fades upon the eye.

 

That dew,

that soft, damp,

odour of silent waiting

is all burned up

and joins again

its own intended stay.

 

The stone

which before the

door of night

secured the death

of him whose brightness

death cannot contend,

is moved away,

thrown,

rolled,

and stirred up;

and cast up

in glorious revelry.

Light,

bright radiance

of the unconquered Sun,

comes forth.

He night dispels and

in his brightness all

that is gives way:

by of itself becoming,

like to like,

which in its likeness to

the Light of All

grows ever more itself

as ever all

turns from radiant thing

to radiance Himself.

 

Morning has come and

with light brimming,

overshadowed with it,

we run to seek Peter.

Easter Morning at a Village Church

The yellow plate of the sun

is hidden behind clouds.

A misty, hilly, morning; ghosts of memory lie

in valleys, on hedgerows.

Dew falls in blue grass.

 

The promise is of steaming tea

and hot brown buns and butter.

Before that, the blaring vox humana, tremulant

in the 8’, or some paltry diapasons and reeds.

The white smell of lilies.

 

Now all this ordinariness

floods into the marvellous.

Here are the old women, batty in their best hats,

revealed as holy things.

 

There is no sitting in the pew

but on the stone, or some bear spices.

They raise their eyes, their voices, their tight-curled

shampoos-and-sets, to heaven

mouths awake with song.

 

And as for me? I consider myself

as rich as a linden tree in June.