| Bid a strong ghost stand at the head |
| That my Michael may sleep sound, |
| Nor cry, nor turn in the bed |
| Till
his morning meal come round; |
| And may departing twilight keep |
| All dread afar till morning’s back, |
| That
his mother may not lack |
| Her fill of sleep. |
|
|
|
|
| Bid the ghost have sword in fist: |
| Some there are, for I avow |
| Such devilish things exist, |
| Who have planned his murder, for they know |
| Of some most haughty deed
or thought |
| That waits upon his future days, |
| And would through hatred of the bays |
| Bring that to nought. |
|
|
|
|
| Though You can fashion everything |
| From nothing every day, and teach |
| The morning stars to sing, |
| You
have lacked articulate speech |
| To tell Your simplest want, and known, |
| Wailing upon a woman’s knee, |
| All
of that worst ignominy |
| Of flesh and bone; |
|
|
|
|
| And when through all the town there ran |
| The servants of Your
enemy, |
| A woman and a man, |
| Unless the Holy Writings lie, |
| Hurried through the smooth and rough |
| And
through the fertile and waste, |
| Protecting, till the danger past, |
| With human love. |