|Baba:||“Are you happy?”|
|Francis Brabazon:||"When I consider how my days are spent|
|In company of God—singing His praise|
|First in my head and then in written lays|
|For other lovers and sweet friends' enjoyment;|
|I wonder at such fortunate employment.|
|Such happy days, such happy, happy days|
|Cut in the fresco of beforetime maze|
|Called living—sure, clear, without argument.|
|These are the days that in the years to come|
|Men will inquire of—probing every word|
|He spoke, seeking the meaning of each look|
|And gesture recorded; some this, and some|
|That, will find—some agreement, some discord:|
|Some will build churches, some will write a Book!”|
Come Sun and Son
Come Sun and Son into our heart,
Come primal Word and glowing Rose,
And break our vanity and pose
Of I and mine—our lives—apart.
Darkness, by darkness, never knows
Itself as dark—its utter night;
Only the dawn the gladdening light
Of morn and noontide shows.
Yours is the streaming beauty bright
That keeps our lives, in our heart sows
That beauty which the fairer grows
The more we feed it with our sight.
Come Sun and Son and golden Rose
Unfold your Glory in our heart—
But, so to bloom means you depart
And bring your Singing to a close.