Human Hour

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Human Hour

Poem — An Invocation to The Master #122

How wasted is my heart’s troubadour
Pouring lyric and melody upon the mute,
How pointless is all my fiery ardour
That falls upon men barren and desolate!

Is there no soil moist and richly ready
Where I can cast my fire-seeds sublime,
Will none hear this slow evolving story
That even in tendril shoots a green rhyme?

But the world is what it can be,
What of Thou who can gaze in and out,
What aim so difficult occupies Thee
That keeps my song for Thee always unspelt?

The day brings strange claims to sight
That night hides in folds of dark,
Be as it may the siege and the rout
From the last moment I shall still ask.

Pause now the final second’s tick
Make space for a little timelessness,
In the cloistered moment do speak
Of Thee and I and our shared reveries.

I fear not the term of a final human hour
For I have adored Thee O my Divine Paramour.