I
RD him preach in Oxford years ago,
A snowy-haired and tender-faced apostle.
I watched the beech against the window blow,
And listened to the throstle.
And still a waving branch to memory
Those deepset eyes and drooping lids as
Upon too much by earthly
And wistful for their rest.
Still in the flutings of a thrush will
Words that upon us then but lightly fell,
Because they were as simple and
As some brief
Told by the Master to the hungry folk,
While the disciples murmured, but the
Wrote it again on Patmos, and it
Above the rage of Rome.
