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The last poems of Alice Meynell

TO THE MOTHER OF CHRIST THE SON OF MAN

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We too (one cried), we too,

We the unready, the perplexed, the cold,

Must shape the Eternal in our thoughts anew,

Cherish, possess, enfold.

Thou sweetly, we in strife.

It is our passion to conceive Him thus

In mind, in sense, within our house of life;

That seed is locked in us.

We must affirm our Son

From the ambiguous Nature’s difficult speech,

Gather in darkness that resplendent One,

Close as our grasp can reach.

41Nor shall we ever rest

From this our task. An hour sufficed for thee,

Thou innocent! He lingers in the breast

Of our humanity.

42

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