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Poem by Thomas Edward Brown


High stretched upon the swinging yard,  
I gather in the sheet;  
But it is hard  
And stiff, and one cries haste.  
Then He that is most dear in my regard          
Of all the crew gives aidance meet;  
But from His hands, and from His feet,  
A glory spreads wherewith the night is starred:  
Moreover of a cup most bitter-sweet  
With fragrance as of nard,        
And myrrh, and cassia spiced,  
He proffers me to taste.  
Then I to Him:Art Thou the Christ?  
He saithThou sayst.  
Like to an ox        
That staggers neath the mortal blow,  
She grinds upon the rocks:  
Then straight and low  
Leaps forth the levelled line, and in our quarter locks  
The cradles rigged; with swerving of the blast        
We go,  
Our Captain last  
Who fired that shot? Each silent stands  
Ah, sweet perplexity!        
This too was He.  
I have an arbour wherein came a toad  
Most hideous to see  
Immediate, seizing staff or goad,  
I smote it cruelly.        
Then all the place with subtle radiance glowed  
I looked, and it was He!

Thomas Edward Brown

Thomas Edward Brown's other poems:
  1. Specula
  2. Ibant Obscuræ
  3. Braddan Vicarage
  4. Pain
  5. Lynton Verses

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