_Phaon_. Enough,--but let me kiss the heavy rose Of your red mouth.
_Sappho_. Not until Death has kissed It white as these white garments, and has robed This body for its groom.
Another characteristic poem of Stringer's, entitled _A Prayer in Defeat_, will bear comparison with William Ernest Henley's famous _Unafraid_:
"Still hurl me back, God, if Thou must! Thy wrath, see, I shall bear-- I have been taught to know the dust Of battle and despair.
"Bend not to me this hour, O God, Where I defeated stand; I have been schooled to bear thy rod, And still wait, not unmanned!
"But should some white hour of success Sweep me where, vine-like, lead The widening roads, the clamouring press-- Then I thy lash shall need!
"Then, in that hour of triumph keen, For then I ask thine aid; God of the weak, on whom I lean, Keep me then unafraid!"
Space cannot be found for it here, but following are a few verses from another beautiful poem, _St. Ives' Poor_. The idea of this poem is found in the old saying that in the giving of alms the Christ is revealed:
"For O, my Lord, the house-dove knows her nest Above my window builded from the rain; In the brown mere the heron finds her rest, But these shall seek in vain.
"And O, my Lord, the thrush may fold his wing, The curlew seek the long lift of the seas, The wild swan sleep amid his journeying; There is no place for these.
"Thy dead are sheltered; housed and warmed they wait Under the golden fern, the falling foam; But these Thy living wander desolate, And have not any home."
And here is an exquisite poem, _The Immortal_, which is full of Miss Pickthall's own music:
"Beauty is still immortal in our eyes, When sways no more the spirit-haunted reed, When the wild grape shall build No more her canopies, When blows no more the moon-grey thistle seed, When the last bell has lulled the white flocks home, When the last eve has stilled The wandering wing, and touched the dying foam, When the last moon burns low, and, spark by spark, The little worlds die out along the dark--
"Beauty that rosed the moth-wing, touched the land With clover-horns and delicate faint flowers; { 284} Beauty that bade the showers Beat on the violet's face, Shall hold the eternal heavens within their place, And hear new stars come singing from God's hand."