. . .Page_6" id="Page_6">6 Cratidas. I ask, Leal to the State, or Christian? Didymus. In this dark, Imperial Diocletian’s telltale dark, And even to the sober ears of eld, What danger in the word! But now and here, Danger I love as if she were my fawn. Turn the lamp full this way: I’ll answer thee. A true-accounted Christian I am not: Afar from them my nurture; but I heard How my young mother, long now in her urn, Received them: whence aroma of their prayers Haunted our dwelling ever. In the wars, I have been sick with longing and half-faith, Last year and this; that prickle has lived on, Till every natural mirth is dead in me. In the shunned name of Christ, I know not how, Some harvest of mine innermost desire Is sown, is springing up. Art satisfied, Father who servest Jove? Cratidas. Accursèd creed!— Sir, there my hasty tongue spake for my heart. A rebel girl I loved forsook me late, Bit with the Galilean pestilence. It rages, and. . . Read More