Christopher Pearse Cranch Poems

1.
THEY soon grow old who grope for gold
In marts where all is bought and sold;
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READING in Omar till the thoughts that burned
Upon his pages seemed to be inurned
Within me in a silent fire, my pen
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Oh, that I could sinne once see!
We paint the devil foul, yet he
Hath some good in him, all agree.
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IN the fragrant bright June morning, Rosamond, the queen of girls,
Down the marble doorsteps loiters, radiant with her sunny curls;
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Saint Brandan, a Scotch abbot, long ago
Sailed southward with a swarm of monks, to sow
The seeds of true religion — nothing else —
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I.
Morning
THE morning sun has pierced the mist,
And beach and cliff and ocean kissed.
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THOU so far, we grope to grasp thee —
Thou, so near, we cannot clasp thee —
Thou, so wise, our prayers grow heedless —
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THE Summer goes, with all its birds and flowers;
The Autumn passes with its solemn sky;
The Winter comes again — yet you and I
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PARTED by time and space for many a year,
Yet ever longing, hoping for a day
When, heart to heart, the happy weeks shall stay
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AH, happy time! when music bound in one
Two kindred souls that ne'er were out of tune:
When in the porch, beneath the summer moon,
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