Praise
A POEM
Oh endless pattern in the trees.
You weave a world for me
Of endless beauty, endless art,
Of endless mystery.
You are a symphony, a stage,
A master’s work of art.
You have no words, still all you say
Lies deepest in my heart.
Oh God, Your hand is everywhere —
Your stroke against the sky
Outlines a joy that breaks my heart
And begs my spirit fly.
It beckons me and beckons me
And wounds me with its glee,
And I will worship You, Great God,
’Til moons shall part the sea.
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Paradoxical in the Extreme
Evidently a man of coarse, even slovenly, personal habits, Auden was as meticulous as T.S. Eliot in the precision of his verse.
Pain of Late Conversion
Have mercy, Lord, and by your blood
wash from my brain
the sly recurring pain
…