Henry Masterman Mist Diaries and Prisoners Pie Magazine
Revision as of Sep 28, 2021, 10:34:03 AM, edited by 172.20.1.1
Shall I attempt the Italian skies to paint a deeper blue? And deck the fields of Arcady In more resplendent hue? Or teach the nightingale to sing more rapturous a refrain? And tune the angels' harps in heaven to some more ravishing strain? Shall I still prettier modesty the dainty violet loan? Enrich the balms of Araby To charms beyond their own? Or to the Sun a candle hold, To show its peerless light? Encrust the stars with diamonds, That they appear more bright? Oh! vainest of all vanities, Such idle thoughts to raise! Yet vainer still it is for me To sing my Lady's praise.
Like waiting brides in their wedding robes, The leaves are whispering to each other wonderingly. When the next sun dawns They are gone. And with quick rustling steps And ceaseless whisperings, They hurry onwards after the flying wind. They wander along the rainy roads And the heavy wheels pass over them.
O Touch us Not.
O touch us not, Eternal Magdalen! The whole world fades away when your pale face Yearns out to us, the Saviours of Men.
Yea, all our luminous dreams are faded then, And we hold shadows strained in our embrace. O touch us not, Eternal Magdalen!
No more we preach on Mountains, or have ken Of aught to speak of. Yea, we are grown base, We, who would fain be Saviours of Men.
Hold back your hands, and come not near us when We agonise in this dim Garden Place. O touch us not, Eternal Magdalen, For we would be the Saviours of Men.
BC Archives, MS-2570 Box 1 File 6 / MIST, Henry Masterman / Ruhleben magazine, Prisoners’ Pie, 1916.