William Bell Scott Poems

‘Open the door! Thou canst not understand
My mission, thou spoilt child of many a god,
Thou who dost claim the heart for thy abode;
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‘Art for art's sake,’—very well,
Your picture you don't care to sell?
Yes, yes, I do, and thus I try
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Ah, did she pass so coldly by
The tenderest love in all the earth,
Making his lifetime one long sigh,
That never knew a morn of mirth?
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The widow heard Elijah's tread,
She heard his staff against the door,
She wrapped the sackcloth round her head,
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In the first watch of the night,
One candle all my light,
I saw a Spirit near the door
Standing raised above the floor,
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Once and once only, and no more,
Art hath reached the topmost bough;
The goodliest fruit of all his store
Our well-filled garner holds till now.
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Another day hath dawned
Since, hastily and tired, I threw myself
Into the dark lap of advancing sleep.
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That foxglove by the garden gate,
The very day the war began,
Opened its first, its lowest flower.
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A celtic Saint this tale first told,
Ere Dante's birth the saint was cold,
But he in faith with mortal eyes
Had been uplifted through the skies
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The old witch-wife beside her door
Sat spinning with a watchful ear,
A horse's hoof upon the road
Is what she waits for, longs to hear,
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