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THE LORD'S DAY
HE foolish bells with their discordant clang
Summon the harlot-ridden Hell to pray:
The vicar’s snout is tuned, the curates bray
Long gabbled lessons, and their noisy twang
Fills the foul worshippers with hate; the fang
Of boredom crushes out the holy day,
Where whore and jobber sit and gloom, grown grey
For hating of each other; the hours hang.
But where cliffs tremble, and the wind and sea
Clamour, night thunders from the roaring West;
I worship in the storm, and fires flee
From my gripped lightnings and my burning crest ;
And when my voice rolls, master of the weather,
A thousand mighty angels cry together!
BRIGHTON, January 1899.