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The Carven Pipe - page #10
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This is a theme for music, pluck it out,
blind harp-strings, from the heart, let it lurk
a golden moment in the tapestries.
Glide deftly through the throng of heart-deaf
people
and lose it's limpid note among the chairs
for you are soul,
my song, and vases stir and mirrors gape,
wiser than those that made them, till my music
quivers among the crystals of the lights
and is an arc of sunlight.
Where all good music's broken. Here are plush
and damasked coquetries of builder's art,
a Persian carpet and Brazilian mask
for listeners, O breaking heart-strings, play
to the cool and dignity of noble works
and man's quick hand, not soul for you are soul,
my song, and vases stir, and mirrors gape,
wiser than those that made them till my music
quivers among the crystals of the lights
and is an arc of sunlight. Music be still,
for these things have no ears, no eyes, no
hearts,
and like the Beloved, break my song with silence.
'Still life' Ivor Bannet
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I look in your eyes
to see your thought.
I can only see
with a faint surprise
how all unsought
my own face, troubled, looks out at me.
'The delicate fire' Naomi Mitchinson |
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The moon is gone: The Pleiads gone.
Oh wheeling sky! Midnight. Time's step goes by.
I lie alone.
O clear, O loving eyes. What must I do?
Ah, look at the bottom of my heart, and yours,
and find what's clean there, and what's foul
destroy.
Before this brightness, which you did discover,
fades, when I lose you, as I must, forever,
and shut my eyes on joy.
'The delicate fire' Naomi Mitchinson |
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