BERTRAM HIGGINS (B.N.C.)WHITE MAGICYoucame, 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 itsWeakling walls.Quaint spaceless musings held me—idiot Mind wasGaped and gilled like a fish to suck through slowTentative pores swift sweetness of strange waters’Ebb and flow.Yet how could I praise in darkness?—Life, like a soddedSeed, moved in drought-sleep and cleft its clayFreshly it seemed, though each sap-season spired itsStalks into day:Till now (ah, deft magician!) your wand hoversOver all Spirit—over those lost grey fieldsWhere one frail flower, with burning stem, glad, gradualPetals yields;And whose past pitiful bitter blooms live onlyIn the flushed mockery of remembering lovers.
BERTRAM HIGGINS (B.N.C.)
Youcame, 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 itsWeakling walls.Quaint spaceless musings held me—idiot Mind wasGaped and gilled like a fish to suck through slowTentative pores swift sweetness of strange waters’Ebb and flow.Yet how could I praise in darkness?—Life, like a soddedSeed, moved in drought-sleep and cleft its clayFreshly it seemed, though each sap-season spired itsStalks into day:Till now (ah, deft magician!) your wand hoversOver all Spirit—over those lost grey fieldsWhere one frail flower, with burning stem, glad, gradualPetals yields;And whose past pitiful bitter blooms live onlyIn the flushed mockery of remembering lovers.
Youcame, 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 itsWeakling walls.Quaint spaceless musings held me—idiot Mind wasGaped and gilled like a fish to suck through slowTentative pores swift sweetness of strange waters’Ebb and flow.Yet how could I praise in darkness?—Life, like a soddedSeed, moved in drought-sleep and cleft its clayFreshly it seemed, though each sap-season spired itsStalks into day:Till now (ah, deft magician!) your wand hoversOver all Spirit—over those lost grey fieldsWhere one frail flower, with burning stem, glad, gradualPetals yields;And whose past pitiful bitter blooms live onlyIn the flushed mockery of remembering lovers.
Youcame, 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 itsWeakling walls.
Quaint spaceless musings held me—idiot Mind wasGaped and gilled like a fish to suck through slowTentative pores swift sweetness of strange waters’Ebb and flow.
Yet how could I praise in darkness?—Life, like a soddedSeed, moved in drought-sleep and cleft its clayFreshly it seemed, though each sap-season spired itsStalks into day:
Till now (ah, deft magician!) your wand hoversOver all Spirit—over those lost grey fieldsWhere one frail flower, with burning stem, glad, gradualPetals yields;
And whose past pitiful bitter blooms live onlyIn the flushed mockery of remembering lovers.