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A Star in the East
For the first Art Exhibition at St. Jude’s, Whitechapel
- LIKE a fair flower springing fresh, sweet, and bright,
- Through prison stones; or like one perfect song
- Heard in a dream on one remembered night,
- When waking worlds were dumb with grief and wrong;
- Like the one kiss that links—first kiss and last—
- The inevitable future spent apart
- With the immutable divided past;
- So in the east shines out this star of Art.
- The narrow‐shouldered, pale‐faced girl and boy
- Nestle against Art’s new‐found, love‐warm breast,
- And feel vague stirrings of a far‐off joy,
- Which life has never for themselves possessed.
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- And dimly guess at wonders hardly known
- Even as dreams—and weep glad tears to see
- A loveliness that is at once life’s own,
- And yet is something life can never be.
- Not worse will work the flying busy hand
- Because the soul has drunk a cup of pleasure,
- Has picked up on its leaden‐coloured strand
- Some little jewel of Art’s splendid treasure,
- Nor will less work be done because men see
- That work is not the only thing in life,
- Because they have been glad at heart and free
- A little space ’mid sorrow, sin, and strife.
- And this sweet draught may banish men’s content?
- For this we pray and strive—not all in vain—
- That men may reach such heights of discontent
- As never to fall back to peace again
- Where no peace is—nor rest from strife and prayers,
- But tread firm‐footed up the thorny way,
- Till all that spring of art and joy is theirs
- Whereof they taste so small a draught to‐day.
