 | Collected poems |  |
336
IF
If not a plume may vanish out of air,
If all things living stand,
But by a will, and that withheld, we were
Less than a shifting sand—
Where in our being has the god its hold?
Where is the burning hand?
If all things living stand,
But by a will, and that withheld, we were
Less than a shifting sand—
Where in our being has the god its hold?
Where is the burning hand?
Where does the might that holds our frailty
Lie hidden? Oh, somewhere
A light shows where the hand is laid, will lead
Us by some lustrous stair
To find the god, take the invisible hand
And tread the starry air!
Lie hidden? Oh, somewhere
A light shows where the hand is laid, will lead
Us by some lustrous stair
To find the god, take the invisible hand
And tread the starry air!
| Collected poems | |