Four Songs to the Words by Alice Meynell

All night had shout of men, and cry 
Of woeful women filled His way; 
Until that noon of sombre sky 
On Friday, clamour and display 
Smote Him; no solitude had He, 
No silence, since Gethsemane.

Public was Death; but Power, but Might, 
But Life again, but Victory, 
Were hushed within the dead of night, 
The shutter'd dark, the secrecy. 
And all alone, alone, alone, 
He rose again behind the stone.

Home, home from the horizon far and clear,
  Hither the soft wings sweep;
Flocks of the memories of the day draw near
  The dovecote doors of sleep.

Oh, which are they that come through sweetest light
  Of all these homing birds?
Which with the straightest and the swiftest flight?
  Your words to me, your words!

I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,
  I shun the thought that lurks in all delight --
  The sweetest of thee -- and in the blue heaven's height,
And in the fairest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the sweetest thoughts that throng
  This breast, the thought of thee waits hidden yet bright;
  But it must never, never come in sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
  When night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all my bonds I needs must loose apart,
Must doff my will as raiment laid away, --
  With the first dream that comes with the first sleep
I run, I run, I am gather'd to thy heart.

Brief on a flying night,
  From the shaken tower,
A flock of bells take flight,
  And go with the hour.
 
Like birds from the cote to the gales,
  Abrupt -- oh, hark! -- 
A fleet of bells set sails,
  And go to the dark.
 
Sudden the cold airs swing:
  Alone, aloud,
A verse of bells takes wing
  And flies with the cloud.