My sorrow had pierced me through; it throbbed in my heart like a thorn;
This way and that I stared, as a bird with a broken limb
Hearing the hound’s strong feet thrust imminent through the corn,
So to my God I turned: and I had forgotten Him.
Into the night I breathed a prayer like a soaring fire;—
So to the windswept cliff the resonant rocket streams,—
And it struck its mark, I know; for I felt my flying desire
Strain, like a rope drawn home, and catch in the land of dreams.
What was the answer? This—the horrible depth of night,
And deeper, as ever I peer, the huge cliff’s mountainous shade,
While the frail boat cracks and grinds, and never a star in sight,
And the seething waves smite fiercer;—and yet I am not afraid.
(Anglican academic and poet Arthur Christopher Benson was the oldest brother of Msgr. Robert Hugh Benson.)