Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
Christ In The Museum
BRONZE bells and incense burners, and a flight
Of birds born out of iron, and fine as spray;
A dial that told the longest summer day
How sure, how swift the night:
And o'er the silent treasury, so high
No lips may kiss, no grieving hands have clung,
Numbered and ticketed, the Christ is hung.
The many pass Him by,
None pause. Here come no agonies, no dreams.
Nothing is here to hurt Him, nor to wake.
Year after year the golden iris gleams
A little paler by her lacquered lake,
And the dust gathers on the hands, the side,
The lonely head of Love the crucified.
Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Christ In The Museum by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- The Revelation Of The Brahman, Bazi alis Subrata Ray
- Lord, Lord, Jared Hirsch
- My Satan, Jared Hirsch
- Shakespeare, Nassy Fesharaki
- Blood of Gaza, Akhtar Jawad
- Small is no less than the big, Dr.Rajendra Tela,Nirantar
- Seed of Lemuria, Cynthia McCoy
- Storm, RandomPoet Anonymous
- The Crown of Salt, Luana Del Lobo
- A thousand words, RandomPoet Anonymous