  AT A BRETON CALVAIRE Upon that cape that thrusts so bare Its crest above the wasting sea— Grey rocks amidst eternity— There stands an old and frail calvaire, Upraising like an unvoiced cry Its great black arms against the sky. For storm-beat years that cross has stood: It slants before the winter gale; And now the Christ is marred and pale; The rain has washed away the blood That ran once on its brow and side, And in its feet the seams are wide. But when the boats put out to sea At earliest dawn before the day, The fishermen, they turn and pray, Their eyes upon the calvary: "O Jesu, Son of Mary fair, Our little boats are in thy care!" And when the storm beats hard and shrill Then toil-bent women, worn with fear, Pray for the lives they hold so dear, And seek the cross upon the hill: "O Jesu, Son of Mary mild, Be with them where the waves are wild!" And when the dead they carry by Across that melancholy land,— Dead that were cast up on the strand Beneath a black and whirling sky,— They pause before the old calvaire; They cross themselves and say a prayer. O Jesu, Son of Mary fair! O Faith, that seeks thy cross of pain! Their voices break above the rain, The wind blows hard, the heart lies bare: Clutching through dark, their hands find Thee, O Christ, that died on Calvary! |
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