Happy Ascension Day

Some dioceses celebrate the feast of the Ascension of the Lord today, others on this coming Sunday.  Ours celebrates it today.  So happy feast day to everyone.
I have always liked this poem, Ascension Day, by Sheila Kaye Smith:

"So thou hast left us and our meadows,
Lord, who hast blessed us and our meadows—
Lord of the sorrel-hearted hay,
Lord of the pollened flowers of May.
From our fields thou hast ascended,
Passing into the anthered light
Beyond the sun, by the winds attended—
And the Sussex fields are white
With daisies, and the diadem
Of the hawthorn crowns the hedge,
And at the blue pond's reedy edge,
Like a broidered, silken hem
The yellow irises are blown.
Lord, thou art gone, and gone alone.


Dost thou think of us and our meadows,
Lord, who hast left us and our meadows?
In shining pastures of the sky
Thou walkest, Lord, ascended high.
The stars are flowers about thy feet,
And looking up to thee we see
The River flowing silently—
The Milky River, broad and sweet
As Rother River here below,
While planets the dim marshes strow,
And constellations flower and fade. . . .
O Lord, thou hast thy country there,
The fields and meadows of the sky,
The fields and meadows ever fair,
The dear, divine, undying glade.


At night we too walk in thy meadows,
We walk beside thee in thy meadows.
At midnight I may hear thy call,
And ride to thee on the moon's light—
To where the living waters fall,
And the unfading fields are bright.
The stars are flowers about our feet,
And at my side thou art the sweet
Perfumed, eternal breath of May. . . .


With a sob the pale-eyed day
Wakens at the Rother's mouth,
And back to earthly fields I go,
And back to earthly toil, and slow
Hot days of the slow, drawling South,
Toiling to keep the fields alive,
For our poor meadows cannot thrive
On just the memory of thy feet,
Which trod them once and found them sweet.
Our tears, our sweat, must give them life,
For thou, our Lord, hast gone on high
To golden countries of the sky,
To golden fields of golden stars,
Beyond the echo, of our strife. . . .
Yet there, upon the shining hill,
Thou dreamest of our meadows still,
And, Lord, we have thy promise plain
That thou wilt walk in them again."

The poem, and others by the same author, can be found at this site.
According to Wikipedia, Sheila Kaye Smith  (4 February 1887 – 14 January 1956) was an English writer, known for her many novels set in the borderlands of Sussex and Kent in the English regional tradition.