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And her blue garment； made in the manner of the Japanese。
Monsignore；
I have never before troubled you with a request。
The saints whose ears I chiefly worry with my pleas
are the most exquisite and maternal Brigid；
Gallant Saint Stephen； who puts fire in my blood；
And your brother bishop； my patron；
The generous and jovial Saint Nicholas of Bari。
But； of your courtesy； Monsignore；
Do me this favour：
When you this morning make your way
To the Ivory Throne that bursts into bloom with roses
because of her who sits upon it；
When you come to pay your devoir to Our Lady；
I beg you； say to her：
〃Madame； a poor poet； one of your singing servants yet on earth；
Has asked me to say that at this moment he is especially grateful to you
For wearing a blue gown。〃
Houses
（For Aline）
When you shall die and to the sky
Serenely； delicately go；
Saint Peter； when he sees you there；
Will clash his keys and say：
〃Now talk to her； Sir Christopher！
And hurry； Michelangelo！
She wants to play at building；
And you've got to help her play！〃
Every architect will help erect
A palace on a lawn of cloud；
With rainbow beams and a sunset roof；
And a level star…tiled floor；
And at your will you may use the skill
Of this gay angelic crowd；
When a house is made you will throw it down；
And they'll build you twenty more。
For Christopher Wren and these other men
Who used to build on earth
Will love to go to work again
If they may work for you。
〃This porch；〃 you'll say； 〃should go this way！〃
And they'll work for all they're worth；
And they'll come to your palace every morning；
And ask you what to do。
And when night comes down on Heaven…town
（If there should be night up there）
You will choose the house you like the best
Of all that you can see：
And its walls will glow as you drowsily go
To the bed up the golden stair；
And I hope you'll be gentle enough to keep
A room in your house for me。
In Memory
I
Serene and beautiful and very wise；
Most erudite in curious Grecian lore；
You lay and read your learned books； and bore
A weight of unshed tears and silent sighs。
The song within your heart could never rise
Until love bade it spread its wings and soar。
Nor could you look on Beauty's face before
A poet's burning mouth had touched your eyes。
Love is made out of ecstasy and wonder；
Love is a poignant and accustomed pain。
It is a burst of Heaven…shaking thunder；
It is a linnet's fluting after rain。
Love's voice is through your song； above and under
And in each note to echo and remain。
II
Because Mankind is glad and brave and young；
Full of gay flames that white and scarlet glow；
All joys and passions that Mankind may know
By you were nobly felt and nobly sung。
Because Mankind's heart every day is wrung
By Fate's wild hands that twist and tear it so；
Therefore you echoed Man's undying woe；
A harp Aeolian on Life's branches hung。
So did the ghosts of toiling children hover
About the piteous portals of your mind；
Your eyes； that looked on glory； could discover
The angry scar to which the world was blind：
And it was grief that made Mankind your lover；
And it was grief that made you love Mankind。
III
Before Christ left the Citadel of Light；
To tread the dreadful way of human birth；
His shadow sometimes fell upon the earth
And those who saw it wept with joy and fright。
〃Thou art Apollo； than the sun more bright！〃
They cried。 〃Our music is of little worth；
But thrill our blood with thy creative mirth
Thou god of song； thou lord of lyric might！〃
O singing pilgrim！ who could love and follow
Your lover Christ； through even love's despair；
You knew within the cypress…darkened hollow
The feet that on the mountain are so fair。
For it was Christ that was your own Apollo；
And thorns were in the laurel on your hair。
Apology
（For Eleanor Rogers Cox）
For blows on the fort of evil
That never shows a breach；
For terrible life…long races
To a goal no foot can reach；
For reckless leaps into darkness
With hands outstretched to a star；
There is jubilation in Heaven
Where the great dead poets are。
There is joy over disappointment
And delight in hopes that were vain。
Each poet is glad there was no cure
To stop his lonely pain。
For nothing keeps a poet
In his high singing mood
Like unappeasable hunger
For unattainable food。
So fools are glad of the folly
That made them weep and sing；
And Keats is thankful for Fanny Brawne
And Drummond for his king。
They know that on flinty sorrow
And failure and desire
The steel of their souls was hammered
To bring forth the lyric fire。
Lord Byron and Shelley and Plunkett；
McDonough and Hunt and Pearse
See now why their hatred of tyrants
Was so insistently fierce。
Is Freedom only a Will…o'…the…wisp
To cheat a poet's eye？
Be it phantom or fact； it's a noble cause
In which to sing and to die！
So not for the Rainbow taken
And the magical White Bird snared
The poets sing grateful carols
In the place to which they have fared；
But for their lifetime's passion；
The quest that was fruitless and long；
They chorus their loud thanksgiving
To the thorn…crowned Master of Song。
The Proud Poet
（For Shaemas O Sheel）
One winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed；
His eyes were full of laughter for his heart was full of crime。
〃Why don't you take up fancy work； or embroidery？〃 he said；
〃For a needle is as manly a tool as a pen that makes a rhyme！〃
〃You little ugly Devil；〃 said I； 〃go back to Hell
For the idea you express I will not listen to：
I have trouble enough with poetry and poverty as well；
Without having to pay attention to orators like you。
〃When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is woman's work
You forget all the fighting poets that have been in every land。
There was Byron who left all his lady…loves to fight against the Turk；
And David； the Singing King of the Jews；
who was born with a sword in his hand。
It was yesterday that Rupert Brooke went out to the Wars and died；
And Sir Philip Sidney's lyric voice was as sweet as his arm was strong；
And Sir Walter Raleigh met the axe as a lover meets his bride；
Because he carried in his soul the courage of his song。
〃And there is no consolation so quickening to the heart
As the warmth and whiteness that come from the lines of noble poetry。
It is strong joy to read it when the wounds of the spirit smart；
It puts the flame in a lonely breast where only ashes be。
It is strong joy to read it； and to make it is a thing
That exalts a man with a sacreder pride than any pride on earth。
For it makes him kneel to a broken slave and set his foot on a king；
And