The windless northern surge, the sea-gull's scream, br And Calvin's kirk crowning the barren brae. br I think of Giotto the Tuscan shepherd's dream, br Christ, man and creature in their inner day. br How could our race betray br The Image, and the Incarnate One unmake br Who chose this form and fashion for our sake? br br The Word made flesh here is made word again br A word made word in flourish and arrogant crook. br See there King Calvin with his iron pen, br And God three angry letters in a book, br And there the logical hook br On which the Mystery is impaled and bent br Into an ideological argument. br br There's better gospel in man's natural tongue, br And truer sight was theirs outside the Law br Who saw the far side of the Cross among br The archaic peoples in their ancient awe, br In ignorant wonder saw br The wooden cross-tree on the bare hillside, br Not knowing that there a God suffered and died. br br The fleshless word, growing, will bring us down, br Pagan and Christian man alike will fall, br The auguries say, the white and black and brown, br The merry and the sad, theorist, lover, all br Invisibly will fall: br Abstract calamity, save for those who can br Build their cold empire on the abstract man. br br A soft breeze stirs and all my thoughts are blown br Far out to sea and lost. Yet I know well br The bloodless word will battle for its own br Invisibly in brain and nerve and cell. br The generations tell br Their personal tale: the One has far to go br Past the mirages and the murdering snow.