  WHITE MAGICYou came, but still, with heart full-given to gladness, I paused, as one stands stricken ere he falls; Not yet my fumblings swept their bounds, clogged sense its Weakling walls. Quaint spaceless musings held me—idiot Mind was Gaped and gilled like a fish to suck through slow Tentative pores swift sweetness of strange waters’ Ebb and flow. Yet how could I praise in darkness?—Life, like a sodded Seed, moved in drought-sleep and cleft its clay Freshly it seemed, though each sap-season spired its Stalks into day: Till now (ah, deft magician!) your wand hovers Over all Spirit—over those lost grey fields Where one frail flower, with burning stem, glad, gradual Petals yields; And whose past pitiful bitter blooms live only
In the flushed mockery of remembering lovers. |
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