Flying Ointment

“This is a subtle art, ” says she; Her old eyes gleam with secrets rare. “It’s not the boiling cauld, you see, That puts the magic in the air. It matters little, what is mumbled; The candle flame can’t charge the aether. And many rites are easily fumbled By knowing neither whither nor whether. No powdered coral can tide the storm; No vaporous draught can call the sprite- It’s thoughts that give a spell it’s form, And love, that makes a potion tight. Allow the brew to fill your senses And, let the disbelieving grumble- All their dreams lie caged, in fences; Yours shall soar, while theirs will crumble.”