| Evensong | ||||
|
First
Issue Second
Issue |
How sable soft, the elegiac bells, Drifting valley deep, That charm the air, sublimely still Doubly floating; sound and drowsy rain The terrace and the courtyard fill. How endlessly the rivulets roll down, and pool in ripples, expanding, ceaseless, timeless, in the mortal air As sunlight breaks the clouds beyond. 'Almighty and most merciful'- no the words won't come. Intoxicating flowers, death of quiet, Moans of gusting wind that circle round the frail Victorian Gothic walls. Eternal, fruitless, was my thinking there. Before I live, not on my lips, but in my my mind. A final, hopeful, aimless prayer. CONVERSATION ON POETRY
If I may borrow phrases, Miss, you are No doubt an "English Unofficial Rose"- -but then again I don't suppose you'd know Oh? Not Betjeman, not quite, but Brooke, to be precise.
And I? "A pulse in the eternal mind, no less"? Come now, you do exaggerate-these words, from books, are meaningless; digress, from what we want and what we are; but then again, they've got us on this far...
HWM |
|
