St Catherines, Niton
Along the coast, a thick white fog,
Beneath a soft blue sky:
And o’er the white and misty cliffs
A silver moon rode high;
While radiant through the vap’rous haze
In a sheen of golden light
The rising sun rose calm and fair
Dissolving star-clad night.
We walked in silence
Thro’ the still, high woods,
With the smell of the sea and the pines:
And the soft wet earth and dripping trees
Glisten’d bright with the sparkling rime.
And suddenly thro’ the clearing mist,
We glimpsed the wrinkling sea,
And watched in muted wonder
As a gleaming gull soared free.
Pure and white against the blue,
It winged the ethereal heights;
A spirit of the viewless winds,
Like poetry in flight.
She breathless stood, with parted lips
And a soft warm breeze moved her hair,
And I saw in her lovely, spell-bound eyes
That a glory was shining there.
I remember still – does she? does she?
The tang of the wind in the pines,
And the sailing moon and misty cliffs,
And the sound of the whispering sea.
And shall I forget – shall I ever forget
As laughing we ran thro’ the Chine:
And how I became an immortal
When she rested her lips upon mine?
“A carpenter and an artist do not see the same tree” Proverb
Thus Mozart a slave to glorious sound;
And Einstein a slave to mysteries profound,
Shakespeare a slave to sonnet and play,
And Rodin a slave to commonplace clay.
Man craves to love – nay worship
Some wond’rous being rare,
To kneel before some altar
With heart and soul stripp’d bare.
But the wax must melt ere it giveth light,
So too must the Self abate;
For only when dying to all that he is
Does a man become one with his fate.
Our greatness lies not in lauding selfs “I”
But in losing ourselves in a far greater “Why?”
For the meanest work be it never so lowly,
Transfigured by love becomes pure and holy.