Thomas Edward Brown
High stretched upon the swinging yard,
I gather in the sheet;
But it is hard
And stiff, and one cries haste.
Then He that is most dear in my regard
Of all the crew gives aidance meet;
But from His hands, and from His feet,
A glory spreads wherewith the night is starred:
Moreover of a cup most bitter-sweet
With fragrance as of nard,
And myrrh, and cassia spiced,
He proffers me to taste.
Then I to Him:—‘Art Thou the Christ?’
He saith—‘Thou say’st.’
Like to an ox
That staggers ’neath the mortal blow,
She grinds upon the rocks:—
Then straight and low
Leaps forth the levelled line, and in our quarter locks
The cradle’s rigged; with swerving of the blast
Our Captain last—
‘Who fired that shot?’ Each silent stands—
Ah, sweet perplexity!
This too was He.
I have an arbour wherein came a toad
Most hideous to see—
Immediate, seizing staff or goad,
I smote it cruelly.
Then all the place with subtle radiance glowed—
I looked, and it was He!
Thomas Edward Brown's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Disguises by Thomas Edward Brown )
Poem of the Day
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, Dylan Thomas
- No Man Is An Island, John Donne
- O Captain! My Captain!, Walt Whitman
- November, Thomas Hood
- A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)