Page:Main Street and other poems, Kilmer, 1917.djvu/50

MAIN STREET AND OTHER POEMS

THE ROBE OF CHRIST (continued) Now many a million tortured souls

In his red halls there be:

Why does he spend his subtle craft

In hunting after me?

Kings, queens and crested warriors

Whose memory rings through time,

These are his prey, and what to him

Is this poor man of rhyme,

That he, with such laborious skill,

Should change from rôle to rôle,

Should daily act so many a part

To get my little soul?

Oh, he can be the forest,

And he can be the sun,

Or a buttercup, or an hour of rest

When the weary day is done.

I saw him through a thousand veils,

And has not this sufficed?

Now, must I look on the Devil robed

In the radiant Robe of Christ?

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