FLIGHT.
73
Yet I, their wearer, though scarred by fire,
Shall sit with the gentle ghosts, I trust,
Who once wore meaner attire!
Shall sit with the gentle ghosts, I trust,
Who once wore meaner attire!
For, had I been less like the lilies arrayed—
They of the field that toil not nor spin—
I had thought of my Father's work, nor stayed
In empty glory, in shining sin,
Far into the final shade.
They of the field that toil not nor spin—
I had thought of my Father's work, nor stayed
In empty glory, in shining sin,
Far into the final shade.
FLIGHT.
Through field and flood and fire I go,—
Wherefore and where I do not know.
Wherefore and where I do not know.
Through field,—my tangled path is crossed
With winds and stinging spears of frost.
With winds and stinging spears of frost.
Through field,—the stones rise up and wound
My fearful feet, that stain the ground.
My fearful feet, that stain the ground.
Through field,—sometimes one rose forlorn
Gives me its flush, without its thorn.
Gives me its flush, without its thorn.
