Page:The Poet's Chantry pg 082.jpg

82

Towards all our ghostly good, And plays in grace her part About man's beating heart, Laying, like air's fine flood, The death-dance in his blood; Yet no part but what will Be Christ our Saviour still. Of her flesh He took Flesh:

He does take, fresh and fresh, Though much the mystery how, Not flesh but spirit now; And makes, oh, marvellous, New Nazareths in us, Where she shall yet conceive Him, morning, noon, and eve; New Bethlems, and He born There evening, noon, and morn— Bethlem or Nazareth, Men here may draw like breath More Christ and baffle death; Who born so comes to be New self and nobler me In each one, and each one More makes, when all is done, Both God and Mary's Son.

In a passage beginning—

the poet analyses the essential mission of the atmosphere, and the blinding, staggering possibilities of a universe unslaked by this "bath of blue." Then the simile is brought to a tender and beautiful conclusion:—

So God was God of old; A Mother came to mould