Summer 1957 • Vol. XIX No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1957 |

Shrine

424 VERSE SHRINE Here rose and columbine, Where once was only snow, Crowd round an iron shrine That marks a pilgrim vow. Here lanes that lead through fields Are almost lost in wheat, Where, thin with time, Christ yields His pain to rain and heat. Passion and penance faint: The pilgrims all are dead. But Christ, in need of paint, Wears vines around his head.

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Elegy

By Lloyd Parks

424 VERSE SHRINE Here rose and columbine, Where once was only snow, Crowd round an iron shrine That marks a pilgrim vow. Here lanes that lead through fields Are almost […]

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