Catholic Poetry

Catholic Poetry November 14, 2010

By Robert Southey (1774-1843)
Behold him on his way! The Breviary
Which from his girdle hangs, his only shield.
That well worn habit is his panoply;
That cross the only weapon he will wield.
By day, he bears it for his staff afield,
By night it is the pillow of his bed.
No other lodging these wild woods can yield
Than Earth’s hard lap, and, rustling overhead,
A canopy of deep and tangled boughs far spread.

Robert Southey was England’s Poet Laureate from 1813 until his death in 1843.
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