artless fields, as any robin might
flies to my door and sings and goes again,
country child to whom the seraphin
lent a few heaven’s notes, morning and night
in the House of Houses God’s high praise,
the crumbs, and goes his light-heart ways.
spiritual wisdom secret in the stone;
ageless cross, and all the fugue of the years;
spikenard of a thousand hearts in tears
his young spirit are as dimly known
is my love to robin when he sees
hand uplift to give, and fears, and flees.
paradox this to put the mighty down
laughingly lift them of low degree
thinking of homework and of what’s for tea
fidgeting a little under his master’s frown
tragic Mary’s high magnificat
words the great archangels wonder at!
yet, what mother-wisdom has he read
the great church, what faith the heavens believe,
this small songster, on the New Year’s eve,
sit wide-eyed at midnight in his bed
that through woods and quiet meadows swells
strange, wild beauty of the Minster bells?
is the touch has opened his young eyes
in the street he breathes with sudden awe,
quickly turns, pretends he never saw,
too hastily of goals and tries,
winter sunset heaping miraculous flowers
with a glory on the western towers?
the poet, the predestined seer
here by childhood’s genius forestalled;
chosen he is among the many called;
a viewless priesthood ministers here
another Samuel, with unknown intent,
Copyright © 2008 [Fen Tyler]