Thursday, 10 April 2014
A potent wand does sorrow wield,
Repentance is a tender sprite,
But if by chance your faith should fail
regard the crescent moon so bright.
Whose voice can stop the nimble clouds
Or eye can see the wind?
which ear can hear the silent song,
whose touch has never sinned?
Whether among the winds we strive
that cuts along the hawthorn fence
in savage wildness, winter's ice,
We must rely on future tense.
The crab, the scorpion and the bull
along with scattered stars,
hidden behind mercury
the ruddy face of mars.
Temptation lurks among all words
while white dust sleeps along the lane,
Darklings among the boughs and leaves
account for the crimson stain.
Paths of wickedness and woe,
The noise of danger in your ears,
some ugly witchcraft might be about,
Perhaps the music of the spheres.
Yet man's heart is a holy place
among the lovely shades of things
Not given to sadness or to gloom,
Regal as palaces and kings.
And nature still will find a way
to bring us back to God,
by ferry of a flying horse,
no ghost more softly ever trod.