Dedication

LORD, on this paper white, My soul would write Tales that were heard of old Of perilous things and bold; Kings as young lions for pride; Lost cities where they died Last in the gate; the cry That told some Eastern throng A prophet was gone by; The song of swords; the song Of beautiful, fierce lords Gone down among the swords; The traffick and the breath Of nations spilled in death; The glory and the gleam Of a whole age Snared in a golden page,– Such is my dream. Yet thanks, if yet You give The crumbs by which I live,– Blown shreds of beauty, broken Words half unspoken, So faint, so faltering, They may not truly show The blue on a crow's wing, The berry of a brier Cupped in new snow As though the snow lit fire, . . .