Scattered Showers in a Clear Sky: O Blest Communion, fellowship divine

Monday, November 1, 2021

O Blest Communion, fellowship divine

Some poems for All Saints' Day

They are all Gone into the World of Light

BY HENRY VAUGHAN

They are all gone into the world of light!

And I alone sit ling’ring here;

Their very memory is fair and bright,

And my sad thoughts doth clear.

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,

Like stars upon some gloomy grove,

Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,

After the sun’s remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,

Whose light doth trample on my days:

My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,

Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility,

High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have show’d them me

To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,

Shining nowhere, but in the dark;

What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust

Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest, may know

At first sight, if the bird be flown;

But what fair well or grove he sings in now,

That is to him unknown.

And yet as angels in some brighter dreams

Call to the soul, when man doth sleep:

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes

And into glory peep.

If a star were confin’d into a tomb,

Her captive flames must needs burn there;

But when the hand that lock’d her up, gives room,

She’ll shine through all the sphere.

O Father of eternal life, and all

Created glories under thee!

Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall

Into true liberty.

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill

My perspective still as they pass,

Or else remove me hence unto that hill,

Where I shall need no glass.

All Saints’ Day: Curtain Call

Allow me at my end to be like these
Descending leaves that elegantly dance
Their final scene, expressing festive peace
As they take leave of life. Still colorful,
They ornament the sky as Fall’s sun slants
To warm their gold, release their sweet fragrance.
They’ve felt their feebling stems, and known the call
Of gravity’s exuberant release,
Accepting the approach of their decease
With bliss. They leave their limbs and calmly fall
In pirouettes; slow-dancing with the breeze,
They fill the air below their trees’ expanse,
Content with or without an audience
To witness this performance – this, their last –
By spring’s or summer’s beauty unsurpassed.
Allow me, at my end, to be like these.

Cindy Erlandson