January 3

WINDS weary with the old sea tune Slide inland with some cloud, and soon

From woods that whisper summer noon

Weigh their wight wings with odour boon.

So I, long salted in our ocean drear

Of disbelief that Essence can be won

By any form of thought invented here,

Felt such a gush of joy about

My heart-roots, as if in and out

'Twas life-blood billowed; and as stout

As once we sent the battle-shout

Pitching clear notes against barbaric din,—

Oh, brother, my soul's voice against the rout

Of unbeliefs a man doth muse within,

Arising and protesting wild,

Spake, speaking out untruth defiled;

Spake, speaking in the truth exiled;

Spake, Little head and weary child,

Come home, God loves, God loves through sin and shame,—

Come home, God loves His world.

RICHARD

WATSON

DIXON

THE CROSS