Book_of_Catholic_Poems_Design_by_Jerry_Hibbs

A Book of Catholic Poems Cover Art by Ruth Ramos



Inspired by the teachin gs of Jesus Christ A Book of Catholic Poems Cover Art by Ruth Ramos Design by Jerry Hibbs

San Miniato OSCAR WILDE See, I have climbed the mountain side Up to this holy house of God, Where once that Angel-Painter trod Who saw the heavens opened wide, And throned upon the crescent moon The Virginal white Queen of Grace,– Mary! Could I but see thy face Death could not come at all too soon. O crowned by God with thorns and pain! Mother of Christ! O mystic wife! My heart is weary of this life And over-sad to sing again. O crowned by God with love and flame! O crowned by Christ the Holy One! O listen ere the searching sun Show to the world my sin and shame. 1

The Golden Prison JOHN H. NEWMAN Weep not for me, when I am gone, Nor spend thy faithful breath In grieving o’er the spot or hour Of all-en- shrouding death; Nor waste in idle praise thy love On deeds of head or hand, Which live within the living Book, Or else are writ in sand; But let it be thy best of prayers, That I may find the grace To reach the holy house of toll, The frontier penance-place, — To reach that golden palace bright, Where souls elect abide, Waiting their certain call to Heaven, With Angels at their side; Where hate, not pride, not fear torments The transitory guest, But in the willing agony He plunges, and is blest. And as the fainting patriarch gain’d His needful halt mid-way, And then refresh’d pursued his path, Where up the mount it lay, So pray, that, rescued from the storm of heaven’s eternal ire, I may lie down, then rise again, Safe, and yet saved by fire. 2

Stars JOYCE KILMER Bright stars, yellow stars, flashing through the air, Are you errant strands of Lady Mary’s hair? As she slits the cloudy veil and bends down through, Do you fall across her cheeks and over heaven too?  Gay stars, little stars, you are little eyes, Eyes of baby angels playing in the skies. Now and then a winged child turns his merry face Down toward the spinning world -- what a funny place!  Jesus Christ came from the Cross (Christ receive my soul!) In each perfect hand and foot there was a bloody hole. Four great iron spikes there were, red and never dry, Michael plucked them from the Cross and set them in the sky.  Christ’s Troop, Mary’s Guard, God’s own men, Draw your swords and strike at Hell and strike again. Every steel-born spark that flies where God’s battles are, Flashes past the face of God, and is a star. 3

Don’t Quit UNKNOWN When things go wrong, as they sometimes will, When the road you’re trudging seems all up hill, When funds are low and the debts are high, And you want to smile, but you have to sigh, When care is pressing you down a bit, Rest if you must, but don’t you quit! Life is queer with its twists and turns, As every one of us sometimes learns, And many a failure has turned about, When they might have won had they stuck it out. Don’t give up though the pace seems slow, You may succeed with another blow. Often the goal is nearer than It seems to a faint and faltering man Often the struggler has given up When they might have captured the victor’s sup. And they learned too late, when the night slipped down How close they were to the golden crown. Success is failure turned inside out, The silver tint to the clouds of doubt. And you never can tell how close you are, It may be near when it seems so far. So stick to the task when you’re hardest hit, It’s when things seem the worst, that you must not quit! 4

If If you can keep your head when all about you And so hold on when there is nothing in you RUDYARD KIPLING Are losing theirs and blaming it on you; Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!” If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too: If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies, If all men count with you, but none too much: Or being hated don’t give way to hating, And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run, If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it, If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim, And - which is more - you’ll be a Man, my son!  If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same:   If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools; If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings, And never breathe a word about your loss: If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, 5

After the Battle THOMAS MOORE Night closed around the conqueror’s way, And lightnings showed the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful day Stood few and faint, but fearless still.  The soldier’s hope, the patriot’s zeal, Forever dimmed, forever crossed -- Oh! who shall say what heroes feel, When all but life and honors lost? The last sad hour of freedom’s dream, And valor’s task, moved slowly by, While mute they watched, till morning’s beam Should rise and give them light to die.  There’s yet a world, where souls are free, Where tyrants taint not nature’s bliss; -- If death that world’s bright opening be,  Oh! who would live a slave in this? 6

My Vocation A waif on this earth, Now near Beauty I sigh, TORU DUTT Sick, ugly and small, But fled is the spring! Contemned from my birth Sing – said God in reply, And rejected by all... Chant poor little thing. From my lips broke… All men have a task, And to sing is my lot – Where – oh where shall I fly? No mead from men I ask Who comfort will bring? But one kindly thought. Sing, - said God in reply, Chant poor little thing. My vocation is high – ‘Mid the glasses that ring, Life struck me with fright – Still – still comes that reply, Full of chances and pain, Chant poor little thing. So I hugged with delight The drudge’s hard chain; One must eat, -yet I die, Like a bird with clipped wing, Sing – said God in reply, Chant poor little thing. Love cheered for a while My morn with his ray, But like a ripple or smile My youth passed away. 7

Madonna Mia OSCAR WILDE A lily-girl, not made for this world’s pain, With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears, And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears Like bluest water seen through mists of rain: Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain, Red underlip drawn in for fear of love, And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove, Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein. Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease, Even to kiss her feet I am not bold, Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe. Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast, and saw The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold. 8

One Little Rose EFFIE SCHNEEMILCH-CUNHA I would rather have one little rose From the garden of a friend Than to have the choicest flowers When my stay on earth must end. I would rather have one pleasant word In kindness said to me Than flattery when my heart is still And life has ceased to be. I would rather have a loving smile From friends I know are true Than tears shed round my casket When this world I’ve bid adieu. Bring me all your flowers today Whether pink, or white, or red; I’d rather have one blossom now Than a truckload when I’m dead. 9

The Thorn JOYCE KILMER The garden of God is a radiant place, And every flower has a holy face: Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod, But Saint Michael is the thorn on the rosebush of God. David is the song upon God’s lips, And Our Lady is the goblet that He sips: And Gabriel’s the breath of His command, But Saint Michael is the sword in God’s right hand. The Ivory Tower is fair to see, And may her walls encompass me! But when the Devil comes with the thunder of his might, Saint Michael, show me how to fight! 10

Art Thou Weary? Art thou weary art thou troubled?  Art thou sore If I ask Him to receive me, will He say me nay? ST. STEPHEN THE SABAITE distressed? “Not till earth and not till heaven pass away.” “Come to Me,” saith One, “and, coming, be at rest.” Hath He marks to lead me to Him if He be my Guide? Finding, following, keeping, struggling, is He sure to “In His feet and hands are wound-prints, and His side.” bless? “Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs, all answer: Yes!” Hath He diadem, as a Monarch that His brow adorns? “Yea, a crown, in very surety, but of thorns.” If I find Him, if I follow, what His guerdon here? “Many a sorrow, many a labor, many a tear.” Is this all He hath to give me in my life below? “Joy unspeakable and glorious thou shalt know. All thy sins shall be forgive, all things work for good; Thou shalt Bread of Life from heaven have for food. From the fountains of salvation thou shalt water draw; Sweet shall be thy meditation - in God’s Law.” If I still hold closely to Him, what hath He at last? “Sorrow vanquished, labor ended, Jordan passed. Festal palms and crown of glory, robes in blood washed white, God in Christ His people’s temple, where there is no light.” 11

Words and Deeds FR. FRANCIS X. LASANCE Prayers and good words within your memory store. And at stray moments say them o’er and o’er. T’will help to hallow all your work and play. And holy thought will keep bad thoughts away. For... Holy thoughts and holy words Are at best mere leaves and flowers But the fruits are generous deeds- Where, oh, coward soul are ours? Soon to soon will come the end: God forgive what’s past and done! Mary Mother! Angels! Saints! Pray for me and help me on. 12

Pied Beauty GERARD M. HOPKINS Glory be to God for dappled things— For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow; for rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim; Fresh-fire- coal chestnut falls; finches’ wings; Landscape plotted and pieced— fold, fallow, and plough; And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim. All things counter, original, spare, strange; Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?) With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim; He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: Praise him. 13

On Easter Day OSCAR WILDE The silver trumpets rang across the Dome: The people knelt upon the ground with awe: And borne upon the necks of men I saw, Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome. Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam, And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red, Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head: In splendor and in light the Pope passed home. My heart stole back across wide wastes of years To One who wandered by a lonely sea, And sought in vain for any place of rest: “Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest, I, only I, must wander wearily, And bruise My feet, and drink wine salt with tears.” 14

In Dark Hour I turn my steps where the Lonely Road And whisper ‘twere sweet to journey no more, SEUMUS MACMANUS Winds far as the eye can see, But lay down the burden and sleep. And I bend my back for the burden sore That God has reached down to me. (Look onward and up, O Heart of my Heart, Where the road strikes the skies afar! I have said farewell to the sun-kissed plains, To cheer you, and guide, thro’ your darkest hour, To the joy I gave goodbye; Behold yon beckoning Star!) Now the bleak wide wastes of the world are mine, And the winds that wail in the sky. I set my face to the grey wild wastes, I bend my back to the load- No bright flower blooms, no sweet bird calls, Dear God be kind with the heart-sick child Nor hermit ever abode, Who steps on the Lonely Road. Not a green thing lifts one lowly leaf, O God, on the Lonely Road! The thick dank mists come stealing down, And press me on every side. With never a voice to cheer me on, And never a hand to guide. I shall cry in my need for a Voice and Hand, And the solace of love-wet-eyes- And an icy clutch will close on the heart, When Echo, the mocker, replies. I know my good soul will fail me not, When Forms from the Dark round me creep, 15

A Reminicience ANNE BRONTE Yes, thou art gone! And never more Thy sunny smile shall gladden me; But I may pass the old church door, And pace the floor that covers thee. May stand upon the cold, damp stone, And think that, frozen, lies below The lightest heart that I have known, The kindest I shall ever know. Yet, though I cannot see thee more, ‘Tis still a comfort to have seen; And though thy transient life is o’er, ‘Tis sweet to think that thou hast been; To think a soul so near divine, Within a form so angel fair, United to a heart like thine, Has gladdened once our humble sphere. 16