One Of A Kind

I was at St George's Chapel in Windsor Castle once, atoning quietly for my sins. The sunlight streamed in on the ancient flags and the modern tourists. In one sweep, you saw the valour and the grime, the tawdry and the excellent, the British humour and the English comedy. I have always loved chapel services. They bring out solemnity and grace, together with moments of (un)intended irony, just as one imagines daily life by the Sea of Galilee might have done in Jesus' time.

Recently, a friend of mine posted this poem by Stephen Spender. It was running through my mind in all its poignant majesty during chapel service this morning. Here you go.

I think continually of those who were truly great
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history
Through corridors of light where the hours are suns,
Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition
Was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the Spirit, clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the Spring branches
The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.

What is precious, is never to forget
The essential delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth.
Never to deny its pleasures in the morning simple light
Nor its grave evening demand for love.
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog, the flowering of the Spirit.

Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields,
See how these names are feted by the waving grass
And by the streamers of white cloud
And whispers of wind in the listening sky.
The names of those who in their lives fought for life,
Who wore at their hearts the fire's centre.
Born of the sun, they travelled a short while toward the sun
And left the vivid air signed with their honour.