What Miracle This

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What Miracle This

Sonnet

What miracle this, mundane moments now donned like damsels
Of brimming proud beauty from halls of Indra lightning crowned,
Seated atop a throne of living fire, girded by alluring spells,
Dancing through mortal air and binding my heart left unguarded.

How hast Thou acceded my paltry stuttering pleas inarticulate,
In which happy universe was this ease conceived, this bounty
Bestowed as if by a whim by Thee, O Grandeur, O Immaculate,
Upon me who am only littleness and shaped of triviality!

Do the gods agree, Thy minstrels of light and power and joy,
Were the great scales of fate tilted by the frown of Demi-urges?
What said the sages upon whose wills the world does ply?
Did he nod, the Dancer, who by dance of will conceives worlds?

How hast Thou out ruled for this dust laws unchanging and cold,
And kissed my mortality into Thy own hue of radiant gold.