MOUNT CAVELL
LOOK yonder where the Rose of Sunset leans—
A Blessed Damosel on golden stair—
Whose lightest touch illumes, incaradines,
And kindles flames of splendour everywhere.
Mount Cavell but a little time ago
Seemed typical of majesty severe,
Aloof, far-off, with diadem of snow—
Lo, gone the grimness, and the air austere!
The Rose of Sunset in a shining mood
Has paused to touch him with her fingers warm,
To weave her crimson petals in a hood,
For his great head, with all her subtle charm.
For cloak she shakes from out her royal lap
Whole webs of vapour, soft, of silken mist,
The rarest colours ever dyed, mayhap,
Mauve pink, and Persian rose, and amethyst.
With blues of many shades, blues somber, gay,
Blending together in a dream of light,
The sun-thrilled blue of perfect summer day,
The star-kissed blue of perfect winter night.
That rarest blue, in midnight vision given
To such as vigil keep, for His dear sake,
Who see across the flowery meads of heaven
The shining pathway that the angels take.
Fair, fair, this cloak the Rose of Sunset weaves,
Ere the invading twilight dulls and blurrs,
Weaves out of golden mist and ruby leaves,
While all the glamour of the skies are hers.
Mount Cavell did we dare to call thee grim
When first we saw thee standing bald and bare,
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