(a trifle)
They say to mix one’s paint with sweat. The humus of the world is ill forgot Because the path cannot be walked Without a keystone for the mind. The inmost heart for blood has song, And so He left his father’s house to heal the lame. They say that good vermilion is so hard bought It takes a lifetime just to prove the flame. They say to mix one’s paint with sweat, Because the seas are bitter in this age. How much three generations can forget; We look upon her still the same. What if the song that songbirds sang Was but a variation on her name? Mother of pearl, these walls If some dark finger them engrave Shall heal the leper and shall free the slave; The hem of His garments have touched Ubiquitous wind, ubiquitous wave. It is the speech out of your mouth in which Men dwell. And let that broken alabaster jar Become the crown you wear on moonless nights. Our tears shall be like myrrh, our speech like fire.