And is the great cause lost beyond recall?

Have all the hopes of ages come to naught?

Is life no more with noble meaning fraught?

Is life but death, and love its funeral pall?

Maybe. And still on bended knees I fall,

Filled with a faith no preacher ever taught.

O God -- My God -- by no false prophet wrought --

I believe still, in despite of it all!

Let go the myths and creeds of groping men.

This clay knows naught -- the Potter understands.

I own that Power divine beyond my ken,

And still can leave me in His shaping hands.

But, O my God, that madest me to feel,

Forgive the anguish of the turning wheel!

Ada Cambridge (1844-1926)

[An Anthology of Australian Verse (first published 1907?) from Project Gutenberg]

Faith

Moretto da Brescia (1498-1554). Allegory of Faith

I like my poems bawdy, boozy, proud.

At best, they should be dangerous to know.

Let there be laughter, music, friends

Rebellion: landscapes I can recognize.

I read the slim unloving volumes that you sent

But the poems turned their backs on me

Communicating nothing, except perhaps

A bizarre refusal to communicate.

Id rather read the tags on Lucy's underwear

Than all this bloodless syntax

That leaves my senses on another page.

© by Liam Guilar, 2003