Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.

By Lizette WoodworthReese

1252 Thomas à Kempis

BROTHER of mine, good monk with cowlëd head,

Walled from that world which thou hast long since fled,

And pacing thy green close beyond the sea,

I send my heart to thee.

Down gust-sweet walks, bordered by lavender,

While eastward, westward, the mad swallows whir,

All afternoon poring thy missal fair,

Serene thou pacest there.

Mixed with the words and fitting like a tune,

Thou hearest distantly the voice of June,—

The little, gossipping noises in the grass,

The bees that come and pass.

Fades the long day; the pool behind the hedge

Burns like a rose within the windy sedge;

The lilies ghostlier grow in the dim air;

The convent windows flare.

Yet still thou lingerest; from pastures steep,

Past the barred gate the shepherd drives his sheep;

A nightingale breaks forth, and for a space

Makes sweeter the sweet place.

Then the gray monks by hooded twos and threes

Move chapelward beneath the flaming trees;

Closing thy book, back by the alleys fair

Thou followest to prayer.

Born to these brawling days, this work-sick age,

Oft long I for thy simpler heritage;

A thought of thee is like a breath of bloom

Blown through a noisy room.

For thou art quick, not dead. I picture thee

Forever in that close beyond the sea;

And find, despite this weather’s headlong stir,

Peace and a comforter.