St. Anthony

THE ENGRAVING BY DÜRER

Dürer 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 book—and pointed hood drawn down. His eager eyes devour the printed page . . . Regardless of the little lovely town Rising behind him, with its clustered towers . . . O Saint, look up! and see how gay and fair The earth is in its summer-time of flowers, Look up, and see the world, for God is there . . . Old dreaming Saint, how many are like you, Intent upon the dusty book of fate: Slow to discern the false things from the true! Yet weary of world clamour and world hate, And hungering for eternal certainties . . . Not knowing how close about them heaven lies!

 

 

 

 

Black Butterflies

O words of all my songs . . . black butterflies! Wild words of all the wayward songs I sing . . . Called from the tomb of some enchanted past By that strange sphinx, my soul, they slowly rise And settle on white pages wing to wing . . . White pages like flower-petals fluttering Held spellbound there till some blind hour shall bring The perfect voice that, delicate and wise, Shall set them free in fairyland at last! That garden of all dreams and ecstasies Where my soul sings through an eternal spring, Watching alone with enigmatic eyes, Dark wings on pale flower-petals quivering . . . O words of all my songs . . . black butterflies!

 

 

 

 

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