Friday, January 30, 2009

In February

Rich meanings of the prophet-Spring adorn, Unseen, this colourless sky of folded showers, And folded winds; no blossom in the bowers;A poet’s face asleep in this grey morn.

Now in the midst of the old world forlorn A mystic child is set in these still hours. I keep this time, even before the flowers,Sacred to all the young and the unborn:

To all the miles and miles of unsprung wheat, And to the Spring waiting beyond the portal, And to the future of my own young art,

And, among all these things, to you, my sweet, My friend, to your calm face and the immortal Child tarrying all your life-time in your heart.
Alice Maynell

1 comment:

angel said...

I don't always understand poetry and I don't think I understand this, but I like the way the words are put together and the way they sound.