Abram Joseph Ryan Poems

The Poet is the loneliest man that lives;
Ah me! God makes him so --
The sea hath its ebb and flow,
He sings his songs -- but yet he only gives
...

~Not~ as of one whom multitudes ~admire~,
I believe they call him great;
They throng to hear him with a strange desire;
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Child of the heart of a child of sweetest song!
The poet's blood flows through thy fresh pure veins;
Dost ever hear faint echoes float along
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My brow is bent beneath a heavy rod!
My face is wan and white with many woes!
But I will lift my poor chained hands to God,
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Some reckon their age by years,
Some measure their life by art;
But some tell their days by the flood of their tears,
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Nature is but the outward vestibule
Which God has placed before an unseen shrine,
The Visible is but a fair, bright vale
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Flower! Flower, why repine?
God knows each creature's place;
He hides within me when I shine,
And your leaves hide His face.
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Dark! Dark! Dark!
The sun is set; the day is dead:
Thy Feast has fled;
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The priests stood waiting in the holy place,
Impatient of delay
(Isaiah had been read),
When sudden up the aisle there came a face
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Two lights on a lowly altar;
Two snowy cloths for a Feast;
Two vases of dying roses;
The morning comes from the east,
...