Holy of holies Confessions of an anarchist [by J. E. Barlas] |
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12
VIII.
[My spirit turns to thee in my dark hour]
My spirit turns to thee in my dark hourInstinctive, as the sea-wave to the sand,
The wind to the sweet-scented meadow-land,
The comet to the sun, bee to the flower,
The weak will to the strong will's greater power,
The nervous ship to the helm's quick command,
The horse to each turn of his rider's hand,
And to the wind the vane on spire and tower;
Ay, as the fine magnetic needles find
With sensitive and trembling sympathy
The altered region of the star-girt pole
With each turn of the prow: e'en so my mind
With each change of my place and destiny
Seeks out afresh the dwelling of thy soul,
Aug. 7th, 1885.
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