And in that silence desolate I call with silent voice. Soul parched though waters beckoning No drop to ease the pain Of separateness; the ache, dry-racked On a wheel of nothingness.
Spinning down through levels cutting Subcutaneous layers of mind, A pauper's ransom worthy not Of rescue to a higher kind.
We enter with a cry to birth And gestation is borne in pain, We wake in morning youth imbued By evening infirm again.
These days that grow with roots in hell As feet ascend through mire. Hands tied that would express life's joy While labours She still higher.
Deep flowers, radiance of suns, Help lift with tender love Our fallen lonely, earth-born souls To fragrances above.
Head bowed low on soil divine, Our hearts unfailing, fail, Accosted by inconstant will, Our eyes unseeing, see Where yet will spring the holy founts So promised in the dawn.
For Mary Helen
Poems Undated (1727)
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