s--
In clean white diction--make
It shine as shines the home of birds
And moss and leaf and lake.

This fair fresh life with joy I hail,
And this belief express,
Its days will be a brilliant tale
Of effort and success.

Here ends my song; I have a dream
Of beauty like the grace
Which lies upon the land of stream
In yonder mountain place.

John Bede Polding

--
* Roman Catholic Archbishop of Sydney
--

With reverent eyes and bowed, uncovered head,
A son of sorrow kneels by fanes you knew;
But cannot say the words that should be said
To crowned and winged divinities like you.

The perfect speech of superhuman spheres
Man has not heard since He of Nazareth,
Slain for the sins of twice two thousand years,
Saw Godship gleaming through the gates of Death.

And therefore he who in these latter days
Has lost a Father--falling by the shrine,
Can only use the world's ephemeral phrase,
Not, Lord, the faultless language that is Thine.

But he, Thy son upon whose shoulders shone
So long Elisha's gleaming garments, may
Be pleased to hear a pleading human tone
To sift the spirit of the words I say.

O, Master, since the gentle Stenhouse died
And left the void that none can ever fill,
One harp at least has sorrow thrown aside,
Its strings all broken, and its notes all still.

Some lofty lord of music yet may find
Its pulse of passion. I can never touch
The chords again--my life has been too blind;
I've sinned too long and suffered far too much.

But you will listen to the voice, although
The harp is silent--you who glorified
Your great, sad gift of life, because you know
How souls are tempted and how hearts are tried.

O marvellous follower in the steps of Christ,
How pure your spirit must have been to see
That light beyond our best expression priced
The effluence of benignant Deity.

You saw it, Father? Let me think you did
Because I, groping in the mists of Doubt,
Am sometimes fearful that God's face is hid
From all--that none can read His riddle out!

A hope from lives like yours must everywhere
Become like faith--that blessing undefiled,
The refuge of the grey philosopher--
The consolation of the simple child.

Here in a land of many sects, where God
As shaped by man in countless forms appears,