I found him talking simply and gladly of God,
In the unmoved city of granite

And noise.

Thought kindled in his cheek,

And his white faith

Was the tree in spring

To look upon.

He whispered me he knew the God of Daniel

In the lions' den;

The faith of Joan of Arc

On parapets.

He will walk, a spirit

Of unguessed power,
Into battle.

He will walk unreached

Into fire!

MY HEART, LIKE HYACINTH

Oh, Grief is not so near to tears
As I!

Hurting me more than chord-pain

The thought of you,

Quiet, alone,

Lovely as a watered reed,
Resting in the straightness
Of your cool white bed.

For I, storm-shattered and sick,
Lie here flushed, hard-breathing.

Oh, Grief is not so near to tears
As I!

THE ADVENTURER

Gatherer of shells,

Flower-hunter,

Breather of slight winds-
There is much to surprise me.

I bring you songs for flutes,
And odd-shaped leaves

And pointed vagaries.

These trinkets you may toy,
And twine into your moods-
Carelessly.

But I cannot tell you of what they are made,
Or where I found them.

The aspen lifts
Its tracery
Into light.

The moon slips down
The edge of night.

It is odd

To stand here alone-
This quaking aspen
And I.

THE FOREST OF DEAD TREES

2

I climbed up the rough mountain-side
Through the forest of dead trees.

I touched their smooth, stark limbs,

And learned much of the white beauty of death.

Whose taut, slender thigh was this?
And this, whose gracious throat?

O life, you are not more beautiful

Than this silent, curving death is beautiful!

1

And Eternity

I think I heard it cry:

"Centre within centre,

Death or Life,

One am I."

BENEDICTION

Let no blasphemer till the sacred earth
Or scatter seed upon it,

Lest fruit should fail

And weed-scars sting its fineness.

Send him here who loves its beauty

And its brownness.

He will plow the earth

As a dancer dances

Ecstatically.

Let no blasphemer till the sacred earth.
Or scatter seed upon it.

Mark Turbyfill