ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

More fair than strange fruit is

Of faiths ye espouse; In me only the root is

That blooms in your boughs;

Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your vows.

In the darkening and whitening

Abysses adored, With dayspring and lightning

For lamp and for sword,

God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the Lord.

O my sons, O too dutiful

Toward Gods not of me, Was not I enough beautiful ?

Was it hard to be free?

For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you ; look forth now and see.

Lo, wing'd with world's wonders,

With miracles shod, With the iires of his thunders

For raiment and rod,

God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with the terror of God.

For his twilight is come on him,

His anguish is here ; And his spirits gaze dumb on him,

Grown gray from his fear ;

And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his infinite year.

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