GEorge Fox sits in hollow trees in the rain,
and seeks this same God whom all the people
call upon in half jest from pillowed pews.
The King! The King! cry they, asleep, while he
sees the chains still on their legs, and his,
and questions this, and them, asking of priests
and of great men of learning, hearing but vacancy
in their sonorous answers. Then, in a high place
(it is often in these high places that it happens,
take heed) he heeds a voice no chain will stand,
and his heart leaps. All creation has now
for him a new smell, such as it had not before,
and the God-swarmed man's heart leaps over the world,
and over its bad master. Good George, broad head
bible-steeped, sees through the steeple to the soul's
church, and calls in the voice of Isaiah: come,
buy wine and bread without money and without price!
And many come to hear the mad man speak;
life is hard, and God's fools must be their fun.
But this one will strike sparks, his Christ-fire spreads!
Hell helpless for once looks on, as love, the power
of God, rises from the dead; even England
draws saints' breath, and some for a time are such
as God in Eden walked with.