Page:Poems·from·the·Port·Hills-Blanche·Edith·Baughan-1923.pdf/33

 Have yet this bright and living splendour wrought; Whose body is but this grass, Yonder cold snows, waters that witless roll, Clouds that uncaring pass:— But yet whose life, like his, is very Life; Whose soul is very Soul!

Yes, yes! For though, as Man we may not guess How flow those currents of her consciousness, As Spirit, we sense them! What, must flesh and blood Be Soul’s one vesture? who would have it so Not yet hath understood! But I, have I not felt, do not I know? Nature! my life-long comrade close and true, My Angel with the great wings green-and-blue, O, since the darken’d childhood long ago, When to the little lonely spirit near Thine answering spirit drew, Laid mother-arms about the shivering heart, Smiled in the sad eyes, in the hungering ear Murmur’d the home-word, Beauty—thou and I, Thank God, dwell never apart! What human touch more intimate, more dear? Who brings me else thine exquisite release: From passion and pettiness to faith and peace? Who can so flood self out with Loveliness, And to all sorrows point the great Redress, Perfection perfect still? I lay My hand here in the grass, I press My cheek against this cold, hard rock— And lo, thy being’s answering stress Thrills through me with the old sweet shock,