Lines written on March 19
The Orbs are silent, yet if one star,
alone may guess of who you are,
no man who bides in Adam's wake may know.
In darkness you arise and toil,
for Master who in darkness coil;
In darkness, home - you to darkness go.
You furnish board for those who starve,
and for the lame the step you carve,
the altar built is but for never wed
In living wood intricacies,
are wrought for but the blind to see;
In sturdy pine the ark but for the dead.
And in the night, the prayer you raise
is, like the suff'ring prophet's days,
delivered deaf and empty, dry and cold.
The lamb is lost, its love in vain,
and bitterness will now remain,
long, long as the vain limb and mind grow old.
Gnarlèd feet tread dusty sand,
with tool borne by gnarlèd hand;
now bravely face this day your blackest hour
But turn, the angel speaks: how could
your gnarlèd stick of long dead wood
burst into flower?
