Handful of lavender / Lizette Woodworth Reese [electronic text]

THOMAS À KEMPIS

BROTHER of mine, good monk with cowlëed head, Wailed from that world which thou hast long since fled, And pacing thy green close beyond the sea, I send my heart to thee.

Down gust-sweet walks, bordered by lavender, While eastward, westward, the mad swallows whir, All afternoon poring thy missal fair, Serene thou pacest there.

Mixed with the words and fitting like a tune, Thou hearest distantly the voice of June. The little, gossiping noises in the grass, The bees that come and pass.

Fades the long day; the pool behind the hedge Burns like a rose within the windy sedge; The lilies ghostlier grow in the dim air; The convent windows flare.

Yet still thou lingerest; from pastures steep, Past the barred gate the shepherd drives his sheep;

A nightingale breaks forth, and for a space Makes sweeter the sweet place.

Then the gray monks by hooded twos and threes Move chapelward beneath the flaming trees; Closing thy book, back by the alleys fair Thou followest to prayer.

Born to these brawling days, this work-sick age, Oft long I for thy simpler heritage; A thought of thee is like a breath of bloom Blown through a noisy room.

For thou art quick, not dead. I picture thee Forever in that close beyond the sea; And find, despite this weather's headlong stir, Peace and a comforter.