Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A CREED, by NORMAN ROWLAND GALE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A CREED, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: God sends no message by me. I am mute
Last Line: Welcomes the poor in spirit—who were least.
Subject(s): Christianity; Faith; Humility; Nature; Oaths; Belief; Creed


GOD sends no message by me. I am mute
When Wisdom crouches in her farthest cave;
I love the organ, but must touch the lute.

I cannot salve the sores of those who bleed;
I break no idols, smite no olden laws,
And come before you with no separate creed.

No controversies thrust me to the ledge
Of dangerous schools and doctrines hard to learn;
Give me the whitethroat whistling in the hedge.

Why should I fret myself to find out nought?
Dispute can blight the soul's eternal corn
And choke its richness with the tares of thought.

I am content to know that God is great,
And Lord of fish and fowl, of air and sea—
Some little points are misty. Let them wait.

I well can wait when upland, wood, and dell
Are full of speckled thrushes great with song,
And foxgloves chime each purple velvet bell.

Our village is encircled by sweet sound
Of bee and bird and lily-loving brook:
Hence, Unbelief, for this is holy ground!

At early dawn I stand upon the sod
And let the lark rain this upon my soul—
The smaller in man's sight, the nearer God.

At noon I linger by the curving stream,
And watch fresh water running to the sea,
The salt of which comes not into its dream.

At eventide I lean across a gate,
And, knowing life must set as does the sun,
Muse on the angels in the Happy State.

So let me live among the birds and bloom
Of hazel copses and enchanted woods
Till death shall toll me to the common tomb.

Give me no coat of arms, no pomp, no pride,
But violets only and the rustic joys
That throne content along the country-side;

No subtle readings, but a trusting love,
A hand to help, a heart to share in pain,
And over all the cooing of the dove.

How sweet the hedge that hides a cunning nest,
And curtains off a patient, bright-eyed thrush
With five small worlds beneath her mottled breast!

Though life is growing nearer day by day,
Each globe she loves is mute as yet, and still
Her bosom's beauty slowly wears away.

At last the thin blue veils are backward furled,
Existence wakes and pipes into a bird
As infant music bursts into the world.

And now the mother-thrush is proud and gay;
She has her pretty cottage, and her young
To feed and lull when western skies turn grey.

It would be bitter work to set a snare,
Catch her and hang her in a London den
Unknown to sun and woodland wealth of air.

As with the thrush so would it be with me
If I should leave my red-tiled roof and push
My country shoulders through a living sea.

My song is all of birds and peasant homes,
For on such themes my heart delights to dwell,
And sing in sunshine till the shadow comes.

I sing of daisies and the coloured plot
Where dandelions pitch their golden camp—
I take what is, nor pine for what is not.

I am for finches and the rosy lass
Who leads me where the moss is thick, and where
Sweet strawberry-balls of scarlet gleam in grass.

And this I know, that when I leave my birds,
The lichened walls, the heartsease and the heath,
I shall not wholly fail of kindly words.

And while I journey to the distant Day
That first shall dawn upon the eastern hills,
Perchance some thrush shall sing me on my way.

The Great Republic lies toward the East,
And Daybreak comes when Christ with tender face
Welcomes the poor in spirit—who were least.





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