THE roots of our longing are probing the heart of night, delving and twining together that our ultimate truth may grow out of the darkness that bewilders and nourishes. Out of the earth, the dust, the crystals of frost that bind themselves like a tight crown over our heads.
Through the mould and the frost our hair and fingers shall prick their spears of pallor and flame, and in the green ardour of our up-rushing leaves the red goblets of fire shall open, and masses of white flowers, milky as the star-sprays that droop over Heaven, shall splash their bright foam from the darkness, as waves that rise and break into a fountain of blossoms.
Through the mould and the frost our hair and fingers shall prick their spears of pallor and flame, and in the green ardour of our up-rushing leaves the red goblets of fire shall open, and masses of white flowers, milky as the star-sprays that droop over Heaven, shall splash their bright foam from the darkness, as waves that rise and break into a fountain of blossoms.
1919
126
