There Is No God.

There is no God? If one should stand at noon
Where the glow rests, and the warm sunlight plays,
Where earth is gladdened by the cordial rays
And blossoms answering, where the calm lagoon
Gives back the brightness of the heart of June,
And he should say: "There is no sun" - the day's
Fair shew still round him, - should we lose the blaze
And warmth, and weep that day has gone so soon?

Nay, there would be one word, one only thought,
"The man is blind!" and throbs of pitying scorn
    Would rouse the heart, and stir the wondering mind.
We feel, and see, and therefore know, - the morn
With blush of youth ne'er left us till it brought
    Promise of full-grown day. "The man is blind!"

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

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Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Death.

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley, Simple Poetry

To-Morrow.

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley, Simple Poetry

A Song of Rest.

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley, Simple Poetry

Song.

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley, Simple Poetry

English

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There is No God, the Wicked Sayeth

There is no God, the wicked saith,
And truly its a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
Its better only guessing.

There is no God, a youngster thinks,
or really, if there may be,
He surely did not mean a man
Always to be a baby.

There is no God, or if there is,
The tradesman thinks, twere funny
If He should take it ill in me
To make a little money.

Whether there be, the rich man says,
It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual.

Some others, also, to themselves,
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.

But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and...

Arthur Hugh Clough

There Is No God, The Wicked Sayeth

"There is no God," the wicked saith,
"And truly it's a blessing,
For what He might have done with us
It's better only guessing."

"There is no God," a youngster thinks,
"or really, if there may be,
He surely did not mean a man
Always to be a baby."

"There is no God, or if there is,"
The tradesman thinks, "'twere funny
If He should take it ill in me
To make a little money."

"Whether there be," the rich man says,
"It matters very little,
For I and mine, thank somebody,
Are not in want of victual."

Some others, also, to themselves,
Who scarce so much as doubt it,
Think there is none, when they are well,
And do not think about it.

But country folks who live beneath
The shadow of the steeple;
The parson and...

Arthur Hugh Clough

Noon.

No ripple stirs the water,
No song-bird wakes the grove,
Calm noon-tide sways his sceptre,
And hushes even love.

On earth the sun-god bending
Poureth his wondrous store;
The soft-tongued tide, advancing,
Laps the unconscious shore.

The long, low isle of marsh-land
Stretches in weary waste,
By sloping sand-banks guarded,
By winding weeds embraced.

Comes clearly from the open
The plash of distant oars, -
Over the rocky headland
The snow-white sea-gull soars.

I see as if through dream-clouds,
I hear from far away.
The scorched air breathes its opiate,
The drowsy fancies stay;

I have no hopes or longings,
I scarce can feel your kiss, -
For thought, and joy and worship,
Another hour than this!

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Christmas Antiphones

I

IN CHURCH

Thou whose birth on earth
Angels sang to men,
While thy stars made mirth,
Saviour, at thy birth,
This day born again;

As this night was bright
With thy cradle-ray,
Very light of light,
Turn the wild worlds night
To thy perfect day.

God whose feet made sweet
Those wild ways they trod,
From thy fragrant feet
Staining field and street
With the blood of God;

God whose breast is rest
In the time of strife,
In thy secret breast
Sheltering souls opprest
From the heat of life;

God whose eyes are skies
Love-lit as with spheres
By the lights that rise
To thy watching eyes,
Orbed lights of tears;

God whose heart hath part
In all grief that is,
Was not m...

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Misunderstanding.

Spring's face is wreathed in smiles. She had been driven
    Hither and thither at the surly will
    Of treacherous winds till her sweet heart was chill.
Into her grasp the sceptre has been given
    And now she touches with a proud young hand
    The earth, and turns to blossoms all the land.

We catch the smile, the joyousness, the pride,
    And share them with her. Surely winter gloom
    Is for the old, and frost is for the tomb.
Youth must have pleasure, and the tremulous tide
    Of sun-kissed waves, and all the golden fire
    Of Summer's noontide splendor of desire.

I have forgotten, - for the breath of buds
    Is on my temples, if in former days
    I have known sorrow; I remember praise,
And calm content, and joy's great ocean-floods,
 ...

Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

On the Downs

A faint sea without wind or sun;
A sky like flameless vapour dun;
A valley like an unsealed grave
That no man cares to weep upon,
Bare, without boon to crave,
Or flower to save.

And on the lips edge of the down,
Here where the bent-grass burns to brown
In the dry sea-wind, and the heath
Crawls to the cliff-side and looks down,
I watch, and hear beneath
The low tide breathe.

Along the long lines of the cliff,
Down the flat sea-line without skiff
Or sail or back-blown fume for mark,
Through wind-worn heads of heath and stiff
Stems blossomless and stark
With dry sprays dark,

I send mine eyes out as for news
Of comfort that all these refuse,
Tidings of light or living air
From windward where the low clouds muse
And ...

Algernon Charles Swinburne