Hymns

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Hymns

Sonnet — An Invocation to The Master #6

A hundred varied seasons yet none my own,
Like a helpless farmer gazing at dark clouds
That loom with a promise but then are gone,
So I watch for an issue from these climes.

An iron plough of pain tills my being,
Everywhere are the furrows of its trail
That grows by night and day unrelenting,
Oh the throes of woe reverberate still.

O Master, O Maker is it not Thy hour still,
What hand hobbles Thy swift serenities,
What impedes Thy sure alchemy’s will
From swamping my being’s shores.

Oh make me Thy priest and hierophant,
A thousand hymns I shall sing for Thee as supplicant.