THE MONK

New Zealand Tablet, 21 March 1918, Page 17

THE MONK

And have ye lost your , chivalry, • Ye vassals of Sieur Rodd, That ye should curl the lip at me • Who henchman am of God ? Your liege-lord rides the king’s white road In vair and gold and mirth, My Master shares the beggar’s load O’er by-ways of the earth. Rodd rides between the wheat and vine, The torch flares in his hall The lantern’s dusky flame is mine, Flick’ring from cloister-stall. i Ye boast his men, his towers, his ships, Fair fife and seigneury— A burning coal hath sealed my lips, My Lord’s humility. See. in the grape His life-blood’s dole • Who made this flesh . one with the corn : The sky is His blue drinking bowl, The moon his silver hunting horn. —E.M.D.