on . . .

Some day I shall dance again that mystical dance . . .
I know not when or where!
But the angels shall dance with me, and I shall not be afraid.
I shall look in their deep eyes . . .
And feel their arms about me, and their kisses in my hair,
And know that time is over, and the desperate ways of chance. . . .
I shall be very wise,
And glad at last, and the walls of the world shall fade . . .
The day when I dance again that mystical dance.

The Prisoner of God

Once long and long ago I knew delight.
God gave my spirit wings and a glad voice.
I was a bird that sang at dawn and noon,
That sang at starry evening time and night;
Sang at the sun's great golden doors, and furled
Brave wings in the white gardens of the moon;
That sang and soared beyond the dusty world.

Once long and long ago I did rejoice,
But now I am a stone that falls and falls.
A prisoner, cursing the blank prison walls,
Helpless and dumb, with desperate eyes, that see
The terrible beauty of those simple things
My soul disdained when she was proud and free.
And I can only pray: God pity me,
God pity me and give me back my voice!
God pity me and give me back my wings!

The Storm

What do they hunt to-night, the hounds of the wind?
I think it is joy they hunt, for joy has fled from my heart.
I only remember the hours when I sorrowed or sinned,
I only remember the hours when I stood apart
Lonely and tired, in difficult dreams entranced,
And I forget the days when I loved, and laughed, and danced.

Grey hounds of the wind, I hear your wistful cry,
The cry of unsatisfied hearts hungry for happiness
The house is full of whispering ghosts as you hurry by,
And my soul is heavy and dark with a great distress,
For heaven is far away, and hope is dead;
And the night is a tomb of tears, and despair, and dread.

O hunt no more wild hounds of the wind and rain,
For my soul is afraid of the sound of your hurrying feet,
And surely under the stars a beautiful joy is slain?
Fly! black wings of sorrow . . . wet wings of the night that beat
At the shuttered windows, swiftly fly away,
Before God stoops to gather the golden flower of day.

St. Anthony

THE ENGRAVING BY DUeRER

Duerer has drawn him resting by the way . . .
Has he returned from some far pilgrimage?
Or just come out into the light of day
From a dark hermit's cell? We cannot know . . .
With stooping shoulders, and with head bent low
Over his