LATER POEMS
And to the joy of love her longing darted;
Now she's lonely and she's broken-hearted.
Now she's lonely and she's broken-hearted.
The Fate that still prevents her choice to-day
Is Poverty, a Fate that mars
The slow unfolding spirit;
Born of a longing to inherit,
Like the sweet thirst of tree tops for the stars.
Her sin's identity is need;
Her thirst a thirst for God, reversed
Until her slaved mortality is freed.
Is Poverty, a Fate that mars
The slow unfolding spirit;
Born of a longing to inherit,
Like the sweet thirst of tree tops for the stars.
Her sin's identity is need;
Her thirst a thirst for God, reversed
Until her slaved mortality is freed.
Within the magic of the Christmas light,
Her soul—like snow, blossoms, foam—is white;
And her desire is fine,
Unswerving as the pine.
Her soul—like snow, blossoms, foam—is white;
And her desire is fine,
Unswerving as the pine.
After vision of those freer places,
She fumbles to her feet.
We lose her in a throng of faces.
She drift, into the crevice of a street.
She fumbles to her feet.
We lose her in a throng of faces.
She drift, into the crevice of a street.
The pine tree boughs divide
In search of spaces wide;
Life unsatisfied
Ascends.
In search of spaces wide;
Life unsatisfied
Ascends.
[18]
