Henry Charles Beeching, ed. (1859–1919). Lyra Sacra: A Book of Religious Verse. 1903.
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| JOY, 1 sweetest lifeborn Joy, where dost thou dwell? | |
| Upon the formless moments of our being | |
| Flitting, to mock the ear that heareth well, | |
| To escape the trainèd eye that strains in seeing, | |
| Dost thou fly with us whither we are fleeing; | 5 |
| Or home in our creations, to withstand | |
| Black-wingèd Death, that slays the making hand? | |
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| The making mind, that must untimely perish | |
| Amidst its work which time may not destroy, | |
| The beauteous forms which man shall love to cherish, | 10 |
| The glorious songs that combat Earth’s annoy? | |
| Thou dost dwell here, I know, divinest Joy: | |
| But they who build thy towers fair and strong, | |
| Of all that toil, feel most of care and wrong. | |
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| Sense is so tender, O and hope so high, | 15 |
| That common pleasures mock their hope and sense; | |
| And swifter than doth lightning from the sky | |
| The ecstasy they pine for flashes hence, | |
| Leaving the darkness and the woe immense, | |
| Wherewith it seems no thread of life was woven, | 20 |
| Nor doth the track remain where once ’twas cloven. | |
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| And heaven and all the stable elements | |
| That guard God’s purpose mock us, though the mind | |
| Be spent in searching: for His old intents | |
| We see were never for our joy designed: | 25 |
| They shine as doth the bright sun on the blind, | |
| Or like His pensioned stars, that hymn above | |
| His praise, but not toward us, that God is love. | |
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| For who so well hath wooed the maiden hours | |
| As quite to have won the worth of their rich show, | 30 |
| To rob the night of mystery, or the flowers | |
| Of their sweet delicacy ere they go? | |
| Nay, even the dear occasion when we know, | |
| We miss the joy, and on the gliding day | |
| The special glories float and pass away. | 35 |
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| Only life’s common plod: still to repair | |
| The body and the thing which perisheth: | |
| The soil, the smutch, the toil and ache and wear, | |
| The grinding enginry of blood and breath, | |
| Pain’s random darts, the heartless spade of Death: | 40 |
| All is but grief, and heavily we call | |
| On the last terror for the end of all. | |
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| Then comes the happy moment: not a stir | |
| In any tree, no portent in the sky: | |
| The morn doth neither hasten nor defer, | 45 |
| The morrow hath no name to call it by, | |
| But life and joy are one,—we know not why,— | |
| As though our very blood long breathless lain | |
| Had tasted of the breath of God again. | |
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| And having tasted it I speak of it, | 50 |
| And praise Him thinking how I trembled then | |
| When His touch strengthened me, as now I sit | |
| In wonder, reaching out beyond my ken, | |
| Reaching to turn the day back, and my pen | |
| Urging to tell a tale which told would seem | 55 |
| The witless phantasy of them that dream. | |
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| But O most blessèd truth, for truth thou art, | |
| Abide thou with me till my life shall end. | |
| Divinity hath surely touched my heart; | |
| I have possessed more joy than earth can lend: | 60 |
| I may attain what time shall never spend. | |
| Only let not my duller days destroy | |
| The memory of thy witness and my joy. | |
