Quid Hic Agis?

I     When I weekly knew     An ancient pew,     And murmured there     The forms of prayer     And thanks and praise     In the ancient ways,     And heard read out     During August drought     That chapter from Kings     Harvest-time brings;     - How the prophet, broken     By griefs unspoken,     Went heavily away     To fast and to pray,     And, while waiting to die,     The Lord passed by,     And a whirlwind and fire     Drew nigher and nigher,     And a small voice anon     Bade him up and be gone, -     I did not apprehend     As I sat to the end     And watched for her smile     Across the sunned aisle,     That this tale of a seer     Which came once a year     Might, when sands were heaping,     Be like a sweat creeping,     Or in any degree     Bear on her or on me! II     When later, by chance     Of circumstance,     It befel me to read     On a hot afternoon     At the lectern there     The selfsame words     As the lesson decreed,     To the gathered few     From the hamlets near -     Folk of flocks and herds     Sitting half aswoon,     Who listened thereto     As women and men     Not overmuch     Concerned at such -     So, like them then,     I did not see     What drought might be     With me, with her,     As the Kalendar     Moved on, and Time     Devoured our prime. III     But now, at last,     When our glory has passed,     And there is no smile     From her in the aisle,     But where it once shone     A marble, men say,     With her name thereon     Is discerned to-day;     And spiritless     In the wilderness     I shrink from sight     And desire the night,     (Though, as in old wise,     I might still arise,     Go forth, and stand     And prophesy in the land),     I feel the shake     Of wind and earthquake,     And consuming fire     Nigher and nigher,     And the voice catch clear,     "What doest thou here?"     The Spectator 1916. During the War.