THE MASTER-HAND.
BY GARNET NOEL WILEY
BY GARNET NOEL WILEY
BY GARNET NOEL WILEY
Sometimes at half-mast, all my hoursA drooping banner seem to lieIn listless folds, along the calm,Still blue of boundless stagnancy.Grieving, I think, because somewhatWithin my soul is near to die.Enow the master-hand of LovePlucks at my banner’s guiding string,Until it flutters in the breeze,And pulses like a living thing.Joyous, I think, because somewhatWithin my soul hath need to sing.
Sometimes at half-mast, all my hoursA drooping banner seem to lieIn listless folds, along the calm,Still blue of boundless stagnancy.Grieving, I think, because somewhatWithin my soul is near to die.Enow the master-hand of LovePlucks at my banner’s guiding string,Until it flutters in the breeze,And pulses like a living thing.Joyous, I think, because somewhatWithin my soul hath need to sing.
Sometimes at half-mast, all my hoursA drooping banner seem to lieIn listless folds, along the calm,Still blue of boundless stagnancy.Grieving, I think, because somewhatWithin my soul is near to die.
Sometimes at half-mast, all my hours
A drooping banner seem to lie
In listless folds, along the calm,
Still blue of boundless stagnancy.
Grieving, I think, because somewhat
Within my soul is near to die.
Enow the master-hand of LovePlucks at my banner’s guiding string,Until it flutters in the breeze,And pulses like a living thing.Joyous, I think, because somewhatWithin my soul hath need to sing.
Enow the master-hand of Love
Plucks at my banner’s guiding string,
Until it flutters in the breeze,
And pulses like a living thing.
Joyous, I think, because somewhat
Within my soul hath need to sing.