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Shakspere by Nicholas Bielby (extending Fragment 93, Gerard Manley Hopkins*) In the lodges of the perishable souls He has his portion. God, who stretch'd apart Doomsday and death - whose dateless thought must chart All times at once and span the distant goals, Sees what his place is; but for us the rolls Are shut against the canvassing of art. Something we guess or know; some spirits start Upwards at once and win their aureoles - Some plough the earth, their feet of lardy flesh, In love with earthly waywardness. Dare we Not know what Incarnation means, not see Love that breaks every bound? Soiled soil, afresh, Leaps up in Christ. And those that live the thresh Of blood and word in creativity, Pity pied humankind and let it free, Share Christ at each cross in that singing mesh. © Nicholas Bielby *Fragment 93, Oxford, Third Edition, 1948 « Home | Contributor Notes » |
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